A Doctor's Touch

The first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was wetness on my pillow. Then the pounding in my head.

I’d been crying in my sleep again.

It wasn't even shocking anymore. I was tired. Tired of feeling broken. Tired of Brad taking up space in my mind.

It was getting embarrassing. But I couldn’t seem to stop.

It seemed ironic that I used to roll my eyes at women who claimed heartbreak had driven them to the edge of madness, thinking they were just being dramatic.

“Wear your big girl pants and move the fuck on,” I’d once lectured my heartbroken sister. “Dicks are like buses. There’s always another one coming along. So why get hung up on the one that just left the station?”

The universe must have taken offense at my arrogance. Because when Brad and I broke up, the blow shattered my pride and cracked something deep inside me.

The cruel pain felt like a dagger driven straight into my chest, reminding me that I was not immune to heartbreak.

Brad didn’t even break up with me properly. He ghosted me. One minute he was mine, and the next, he was gone. No call, no text—just a brutal silence.

We had been together for five damn years.

I thought we were solid. He drowned me in compliments and over-the-top promises, even once saying, crystal clear in my memory, “Alexa, I’ll hang myself and haunt you forever if you don’t agree to be my girlfriend.”

I knew I’d lost him the day he finally replied after weeks of silence with a cold text—I’m busy with work. Don’t call me. No matter how demanding his job in customer care at one of the country’s fastest-growing banks was, Brad had always made time when he wanted to.

The realization hit so hard I couldn’t work, and as deadlines piled up and my editor’s gentle reminders became unbearable, I lied that a family member had died and whispered “God forbid” as I hit send. She replied with condolences and told me to take all the time I needed.

Although no one had died, I was grieving. In my mother's mom’s cramped house, there was no privacy. Every emotion echoed louder than it should.

I sat up, wiping my tears and listening to the beep of the refrigerator and the rumble of my stepfather’s car. If I looked out the window, I knew I’d see him brushing the car and tuning in to his favorite radio station.

Life was moving on, indifferent to my collapse.

Needing to run, I pulled myself out of bed, changed into gym clothes, shoved my headset on, and stepped outside.

My mom’s disapproving glare followed me as I left. Her eyes said it all: twenty-four, broke, living at home, and single.

A walking failure.

Living with your parents wasn’t unusual in my country, but I felt trapped and wanted out.

I left the house, muttering a good morning to my stepfather who pretended not to hear me. I began jogging down the street and onto the main road.

I hated anything related to physical activity, but I needed to think.

For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with a single reason that would justify Brad treating me like this.

If he wanted to end things, why not do it like a normal human being instead of a bloody coward?

I ended up in the noisiest part of the city. The chaos swallowed me whole. My heartbreak playlist played on a loop, but I didn’t even realize I’d wandered onto the highway.

I had wandered through the Johannesburg heat for over thirty minutes, drenched in sunlight and confusion, yet too numb to feel exhaustion or irritation. My mixed German and African heritage usually meant I was quick to burn, and I never skipped sunscreen. But today, I was temporarily insane.

The streets pulsed with chaos: car horns, street vendors shouting, crowds surging in every direction. But I floated through it, detached, propelled by a restless energy that wouldn’t let me stop.

A thick fog weighed down on my heart, blurring everything but the ache. I stumbled over a stone and cursed softly. My thoughts spun in circles, always landing back on Brad.

What did I do wrong?

Was I not pretty enough? Was he seeing someone else? A coworker, maybe?

I remembered our laughter, our plans, and the little traditions. Were they all lies?

My best friend had warned me. “Bankers, celebrities, doctors—they’re the worst, Alexa. They love to whore around.” I’d laughed it off, never believing it could happen to me.

But there were signs. Like that night at The Majestic Bar, where a curvy Nubian beauty served us. Brad’s eyes had devoured her.

I told myself it was a harmless look. My body, with its white-European softness, wasn’t built like hers. But when Brad vanished for thirty minutes claiming a “runny stomach,” my doubts returned. Now, looking back, I wondered if he’d hooked up with her in some corner of the bar.

I’d told myself I was being paranoid. That Brad loved me. That I was enough.

Had I been blind? Or just stupid?

My mom, a South African with Zulu roots, had me during a fling with a German tourist. She found out he was married with four kids back home after she was already pregnant.

“Alexa, take your life seriously,” she often said. “A woman without money or a man is like a handicap. Life will beat you hard, and no one will save you.”

She’d compare me to her friend’s children. Doctors. Lawyers. Success stories.

Sweat slid down my back and pooled where my bra clasp dug into my skin. Everyone else seemed to be going somewhere. Doing something. Living. Meanwhile, I was drowning.

At a roundabout, a police officer under a wooden platform waved at me. He was surrounded by friends, smoking and hiding from the sun. I waved back. Politeness was second nature, especially around authority.

“I want to go on a date with you. How about Sunday evening at Burger King?” he called out.

If he didn’t have a pistol at his hip, I would’ve laughed and kept walking.

“I’m sorry. My sister just had a baby. We’re hosting a family party,” I lied.

“Oh, great! I’d love to come. What’s the address?” He stretched his phone toward me.

“It’s in the Western Cape,” I replied, hoping that would end it.

His friends burst out laughing, catching the lie. Thankfully, he let me go.

That was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up, I wasn’t in my bedroom. The air reeked of antiseptic. An IV was taped to my arm. My head throbbed.

Panic surged through me.

Where was I? What had happened?

“Calm down, Alexa. Think,” I told myself, trying to slow my racing thoughts.

Had I lost my mind? My neck ached too much to turn. The room was too white. Too clean.

“She’s awake!” a nurse shouted, appearing at my side.

“Oh, thank God,” another said, carrying a tray. “We need her to give us a contact. We can’t keep treating her for free.”

“Nala, don’t be rude,” the loud nurse scolded. “She can hear you.”

Nala clicked her tongue. “My husband’s still in the mortuary. Sympathy’s dried up.”

She checked my vitals like she was touching furniture. Cold and impersonal.

“The head wound is deep. Add morphine and vitamin B complex. Let’s hope she doesn’t have memory loss.”

Nala leaned in until her powdered face filled my vision. “What’s your name?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

“You were in a road accident. A kind police officer brought you in.”

My brain scrambled for details. Shouldn’t I remember a car? The impact? The sound of brakes?

The nurses kept chatting. I wanted them to shut up. My head couldn’t take it.

“Good evening, Doc,” they said in unison, suddenly giddy.

“Good evening, Nurse Nala. Nurse Thandi.” The doctor’s voice was deep, tired, and foreign.

Why was I attracted to a voice when I hadn’t even seen the man behind it?

But when I finally saw him, I understood their giggles. He was tall, over six feet, with dark brown hair neatly styled and a warm olive complexion. Mediterranean, maybe Italian.

His presence was effortlessly commanding. He looked like a doctor who cared for his body and knew women noticed.

I was nursing a broken heart over Brad, my own heartbreak specialist. But as I turned my face from the doctor, I caught myself wishing he’d been old, bald, maybe missing a few teeth. Anything but this tall, olive-skinned Adonis with eyes that looked like they knew too much.

Because handsome men broke hearts for sport. They smiled, made you believe you were the exception, then disappeared like vapor. Not that this one would ever blur the lines—doctors were bound by codes and ethics, but still, I needed the safety of indifference. I didn’t trust what good-looking men could do with a little attention and the right tone of voice.

Especially not when I was lying flat on my back, vulnerable, stitched up, and broken in more ways than one.