How pathetic I felt, holding onto something that was never mine to begin with.
But then, the painful truth struck me: none of that would have happened if Sylus had not found me that day at the hospital.
Our first meeting had been nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.
I was a resident doctor, working night shifts in the emergency room at a hospital run by the Fuentez family.
My life was simple then, it was to save enough money to retire and travel the world. That was all I wanted.
It was after one of those grueling night shifts that he appeared. I was resting at the canteen, sipping my coffee and nibbling on a sandwich, when a tall, imposing man came to me.
His eyes locked on me, and I remember the odd look in them, half surprise and half recognition.
“Lotty?” he had murmured, his voice filled with a strange mix of longing and disbelief.
I had no idea who he was or why he called me by that name. But after being with him for three years, I learned Lotty was his fiancée, the woman who had left his life, leaving a hole I was unknowingly about to fill.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized after glancing at my name tag. “I mistook you for someone else.”
I shrugged it off, not paying much attention, and continued eating my sandwich.
Before he left, he offered to pay for my meal as an apology. I had not even had the chance to refuse before he was gone.
Later, I used that as a small treat for my coworkers, thinking nothing more of the encounter.
But that would not be the last time I saw him.
That same night, an emergency call came in about a tragic accident. I was on shift and rushed to the ambulance bay, prepared to do whatever I could to help.
As the patient arrived, I saw a middle-aged woman bleeding profusely from a wound that reminded me of the accident that had claimed my own parents' lives.
My heart raced. I knew I had to save her.
With every ounce of skill and determination I had, I worked to stop the bleeding and stabilize her condition.
It was a miracle that I managed to get her out of critical condition before handing her over to the specialist surgeon.
I had saved her life, or at least delayed death long enough for the surgeons to finish the job.
The next day, I was called into the patient’s room.
The chief doctor told me the woman’s identity, and I could barely suppress the trembling in my hands.