It was the beep of the IV machine that greeted me back to the land of the conscious. My eyes blinked open slowly, blurry at first, like the world needed to buffer before coming into focus. There was a sterile brightness in the room — too white, too clean, and just clinical enough to be unsettling.
I was in a hospital bed. But not my hospital. That was the first red flag.
The second? A sticky note on my chest that read:
"You fainted like a majestic goat. Recover soon – Dr. Blue Eyes."
"What the hell…" I muttered, ripping it off and nearly tearing out the IV in the process.
A nurse entered, holding a blood pressure cuff in one hand and a very questionable pudding cup in the other. She gave me the kind of smile people reserve for children or drunk uncles at weddings.
"Easy, Doctor Nurain," she said, like I hadn't been betrayed by a sticky note. "You had a panic attack. You passed out just outside your apartment. A good Samaritan brought you in. You've been asleep for five hours."
I blinked. "Who brought me in?"
She smiled wider. "Tall. Blue eyes. Round glasses. Said he was a psychiatrist. Left the note."
Omar.
God really had a twisted sense of humor.
Just then, as if summoned by the chaos in my brain, the door creaked open and he walked in — fresh button-down, blazer, carrying two coffees like he was in a Nescafé commercial.
"You're awake," he said, way too pleased with himself.
"You gave me a note."
He grinned. "Better than a text. I debated drawing a sketch of the moment you fainted, but I didn't want to scar the nurses."
I stared. "You realize you blackmailed a chef for my number, then randomly showed up outside my apartment and became my emergency contact. You're ticking at least three rom-com and two serial killer boxes right now."
He shrugged and handed me a coffee. "I prefer to think of myself as aggressively concerned."
Before I could launch into a monologue about boundaries, the door swung open again and in barreled Zara — my best friend, certified drama queen, and unofficial chaos coordinator of my life.
"IMANI NURAIN!" she shouted. "Why am I hearing from a psych ward nurse that you passed out like a Regency-era widow?!"
She looked at Omar and stopped cold. "Wait. Is this... is this the Blue Eyes guy?!"
"Hi," Omar said, sipping his coffee like he hadn't upended my life.
Zara looked at me, eyes wide. "You didn't tell me he was hot-hot."
"I was busy collapsing."
She turned to him. "Do you have a twin, or should I just pretend to faint outside and hope for the best?"
"I hate both of you," I groaned.
---
Later that day, I was discharged with a clean bill of health and a bruised ego. Zara insisted on walking me home like I was 97 and had just discovered TikTok.
"Look on the bright side," she chirped. "You didn't die. You got saved by a man with a publishing history and jazz piano skills. That's basically the Nigerian version of a fairytale."
"I fainted from burnout and trauma, Zara."
"Exactly. Romantic trauma. Now he's part of your healing arc."
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly detached.
---
The next day at work, the whispers began.
"I heard she collapsed into his arms. Like, mid-fall, he caught her."
"No! She fell, and he resuscitated her with mouth-to-mouth."
"In front of her apartment! I saw him carry her like a bride. He even left a love note!"
Hospital gossip was faster than blood cultures.
Even the security guard winked at me as I signed in.
By lunchtime, someone had drawn a cartoon on the whiteboard in the break room: a stick-figure me being carried by a caped Omar with the words "SHE FOUND HER EMOTIONAL SUPPORT PSYCHIATRIST."
I considered quitting.
---
That night, I lay in bed, phone in hand, contemplating how much therapy I'd need just to survive my reputation.
Then a message popped up.
Unknown Number: "Hope you're feeling better. I promise not to blackmail Ali again. Unless it's for jollof."
I typed, deleted, typed again.
Eventually:
Me: You're ridiculous. But thanks. I think.
Omar: Baby steps. Can I call you sometime?
Me: Define 'sometime.'
Omar: Like... now?
I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I hit "Call."
---
"So," I said as his voice came through the line. "Why psychiatry?"
He chuckled. "That's your first question?"
"You stalked me, blackmailed someone for my number, and became my emergency contact. I think it's fair I get to ask."
He paused. "I like figuring out what breaks people. And what heals them. I don't always get it right, but I try."
The honesty hit me like cold air. For a second, I forgot why I'd built so many walls in the first place.
"I don't need fixing," I said.
"I didn't say you did."
And we stayed on the line. For minutes. Maybe hours.
---
Two days later, Ali called.
"Doc... someone's been asking about you. A guy. Said he used to know you."
My heart skipped. "Did he say his name?"
"Something like Idris. Idris Imani."
The air left my lungs. "What did he want?"
"To talk to you. He left this."
Ali sent a photo.
It was of me and Idris, arms around each other, laughing. Time-stamped: a month after he told me he had to "leave for good."
I dropped the phone.
Zara, who was next to me watching Netflix, looked up. "What happened?"
"I think... I've been lied to. Again."
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "We need to talk. It's about your father."
To be continued...