Page 68 of Sing For Us

I am a motherfucking mess these past few days.

“You are not weird. Besides, I love weird people. They make the world cooler.”

"Being weird means being cool," I murmur automatically.

I blink.

Where the hell had that come from?

It sounds so familiar.

I’m interrupted by Ina standing up. “Can you promise me something before I go?”

I nod.

“Don’t let anyone walk over you; you are a freaking strong woman. But feed your heart love once in a while. The logical part of our brain will never be starved, while our heart is running on fumes most of the time.”

“I will. Thank you, Ina. I hope I see you around again.”

“Let it not be here in the hospital, but outside.” I see her walking out of the hospital, and she is greeted by someone who looks like her adult child. He pats his mom on the back and proceeds to hug her tightly.

This display of love reiterates for me what I have been missing in life and what will never come to me.

While the work I am doing is luckily not that common, it’s dangerous, and it leaves cracks in the social foundation you are building for yourself. Maintaining a normal life is important to me, and I have to thank my parents for that. They did everything so I could have a normal and fun childhood. They are true parents, and I am sad that I will never experience that—being a parent.

I’m just too fucked up.

I don’t deserve it.

Before I dive into that mental tug of war, I get up and take another cup of coffee out of the machine.

“Lana Osmanovic.” A voice calls out to me. I didn’t bother using a fake name when I came here, and I am so happy I didn’t. I probably wouldn’t have remembered what fucking fake name I gave.

My cup of coffee is left near the machine, and I basically sprint towards the doctor.

Immediately, I recognize him.

“I know you,” I tell him while I scrunch my eyebrows. Before he can talk, I hold up my hands and cross my arms.

“You are Noa’s friend.” Isa’s eyes widen because he probably can’t believe I know Noa’s real name. He files that small bit of information away as we have more urgent matters to attend to. He introduces himself as Dr. Isa Hadzic. I confirm I am Emin’s healthcare proxy, and then he asks to follow him so we could have some privacy. He brings me to the hall where we’re alone, and his face is unreadable.

Years of training probably helped.

Yet I can feel that won’t give me good news.

“The surgery is finished. We were able to control the bleeding inside his skull and relieve the pressure that was building on his brain. We removed the blood clot and addressed the damage that we could safely address.” This may be perceived as cold, given how he tells me, but I find it professional.

“So he is okay?” That small fucker called hope still hasn’t died in me.

He hesitates for just one millisecond. “He's alive. That's what we wanted to achieve tonight. But I need to be honest with you—the surgery was only the first step”

“What do you mean?” Medical mumbo jumbo has never been my forte. Deep down, I know what’s coming, but I ignore it.

Emin will be okay.

He will recover.

“A bullet injury to the brain is different from many other injuries. We can stop bleeding. We can remove pressure. But we cannot repair every cell that has been damaged. The brain can also continue to swell after an injury like this.”