text: The hospital is packed. On one end of the building, the hospital has cordoned off a section to allow recovered patients to donate plasma. The opposite annex houses the pathology lab for testing. Thousands of people pour in on both of these wings, meaning the ground floor is constantly a swarm of people filtering in and out. As the warnings to wear masks, stay home and socially distance go unheeded, the number of cases are on an exponential rise. It is no wonder that the health systems are struggling to cope. As a result, the hospitals are taking in more patients than they can accommodate - and have become home to several well-meaning family members who insist on visiting despite the health risks. Dr. Song, however, is operating on a loophole. As a doctor employed here, he isn’t violating any health codes by being present in the hospital. However, as a plastic surgeon with fewer than 3 (minor) surgeries in a day, he isn’t actually needed on-call either. He claims he uses his hospital privileges to volunteer on the sixth floor of one of the many newly converted COVID-19 wards and help lighten the load. Coincidentally, two of his family members are currently admitted to a room on that floor. Right now, he is rushing into the pathology wing, taking a shortcut through the plasma donation center, to check the results on his family’s most recent blood test. The blood had been collected a few hours before he had entered the hospital premises, and he wants to request the lab technician to analyze the sample from Room 615 urgently. He is nearly out the door, when he hears a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Ms. Rebecca Singh? You left your purse on counter 4.’ Somehow the impact of distant memories flooding his head causes him to stop in his tracks. He has vague recollections of his childhood home and friends but unable to place exactly when he knew that name. Why does it feel so impossibly familiar? However, he does not have to wonder for long because his mental fog clears the moment she enters the room. The moment their eyes lock, he is transported back to 1983. In a flash, he can feel the hormones rush back into his 54 year old body as if he was 17 again. They were standing over his parent’s balcony when he first dared to cover her hand with his, his heart hammering against his barely-pubescent chest. She had pulled her hand away, slowly. Carefully, she extracted it from his grip. Though she continued to focus her stare directly beyond the balcony, over the horizon, he let his gaze drop for a moment to look at her hand. She was softly wiping it on the front of her dress. She was being kind, trying not to hurt him. She was trying to be as gracious as possible about his unwelcome advance.He could feel his heart sink to the deepest pits of his stomach, his cheeks burning red. He turns his gaze away from her, towards the peeling wall, wishing he had never invited her to study in the first place. ‘Rebecca, hi.’ Ms Singh, who has clearly returned in search of her purse, drops her gaze to his hand to see if he had it. When over his shoulder, she spots her purse. She breaks into an awkward smile as she prepares to cut around him to pick up her forgotten bag. At that moment, the doctor makes a (somewhat) calculated decision to pull down his mask for a brief second. In her surprise, she pauses. ‘It’s Robert... Robert Song. From Sainsbury High School...’ Then, suddenly, he felt a light brush against his fingers. He turned his head so fast, he got whiplash from his hair. Her hand hovered ominously close to his, palm up. Her gaze is still fixed in the far distance, but she had a shy smile teasing the corners of her lips. He thought he saw her eyes dart towards him peripherally, but they shifted back forward so fast that it could have been his imagination. Slowly - even though his whole body felt alive with nervous energy - he inched his hand closer to hers. He placed his palm atop hers, and immediately she intertwined their fingers. Recognition floods her eyes, as she stares at him in awe. ‘Oh my God! Robert!’ She remembers him, and for some reason this brings a giddy smile to his lips. The warmth of his smile extends to his voice. ‘It’s so good to see you - you haven’t changed at all!’ ‘Flatterer!’ she says with a tone of surprise. Even though she runs a hand to smooth over her greying hair, a blush creeps across her cheeks. ‘How - I mean, what are you doing here?’ He must have eaten fireworks for lunch that day, because his stomach felt like an explosion. Yet, the only thing he could process was the sensation of her hand in his. He felt electric currents wherever his skin met hers. His heart was beating faster than ever and he could feel her pulse match his. They must have spent hours there, hand in hand, experimenting with pressure and strokes. Dr Song glances down at his white coat, ‘I work here. 16 years now.’ Her smile is warm and genuine. ‘A doctor, of course’ She chuckles, ‘Your father must be pleased, I remember that’s what he had wanted.’ He waited on the floor of her bedroom as she put finishing touches on her hair. He was impatient to see her, and hold her. He kept trying to peer into her bathroom, but was keenly aware that her father was carefully pacing right outside her open (as was strictly instructed) door. The wait felt like agony - each cell in his body felt like tiny magnets being pulled towards her. Yet he had to wait until she was ready, and safely in the front seat of his old beat-up sedan. While he waited, his stomachs turned to knots at the anxiety of being apart. Over the months following the first time they held hands, the touch evolved to hugs and pecks on the cheeks, and then on the lips and beyond. They had become inseparable. Every waking moment was spent lost in each other’s thoughts, or in each other’s eyes. Together they felt invincible. Their love burned bright and hot, and it was easy for the world to fall apart when they were alone. He was just about to get up and poke his head into the bathroom, when her father walked in. They exchanged general pleasantries. In contrast with his father’s relationship with Rebecca, her father was usually friendly. They talked a little about some game that had recently transpired, and then Mr Singh asked what Robert’s plans were after highschool. Aiming to impress, Robert rattled off a section of his college essay to Mr Singh explaining how he wanted to study pre-med to become a doctor like his own father. Mid-conversation, Rebecca finally stepped out, glowing with her big coiffed hair and glossy lips. She jokingly reprimanded her father for interrogating her boyfriend (a word that still caused somersaults in Rob’s stomach) and then held out her hand to leave. He laughs back, awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose. What about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m in real estate! Let me give you my card -’ She reaches near her hip where her purse would hang and laughs out loud again. ‘Oh, right. My purse - I should... I left it on the counter. Let me just go get it.’ He hears her words but doesn't quite comprehend them. Instead, he stands there, transfixed. Rebecca Singh, whom he had known and loved at the tender age of 17 going on 18. They had lost touch so long ago. There is so much he wants to ask her - there is so much he could say. The woman in front of him is one he knew better than anyone else, and yet is a complete stranger now. He is grateful for his mask, which hides his attempts to find the words to say something to her. All he knows is that he doesn’t quite want the conversation to end just yet. He doesn’t want her to leave just yet. ‘My purse?’ She tries again. Her voice breaks his trance, and he is pulled back into reality. ‘Right, yes! Please -’ Robert says, as he steps out of her way. He is angry - seething - as he blocks her path. He refused to let her go without finishing their conversation first, and he let her know this. Some part of him must have known that he was aggravating the situation, but he was hurting. Anger was much easier to express than vulnerability. He was afraid of losing her. Sadly, his attempts to keep her close only drove her further away. Then, of course, as quickly as it had started, the romance had run its course. It appeared that they argued more than they spoke, fought more than they kissed and spent more time apart than together. Like caramel heated beyond its burning point, what was once sweet began to taste bitter. One particularly vicious fight, two nights before their senior prom, resulted in a break-up. Words were said that they did not quite mean, but it was already too late to take back. Robert is waiting by the door as she returns. She holds up her purse at him as she crosses over. He holds the door open for her. As they stand at the reception area, they have both suddenly gone quiet. Rebecca looks down at her purse, fiddling at the strap. ‘Well, I should go.’ ‘It was lovely meeting you again.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ The moment hangs and he wishes he could give her a hug. Anything, to mark this strange moment, to give it an appropriate sense of closure. However, even without the pandemic, he feels that perhaps it would not have been possible. He moves to offer her a hand to shake, and realizes that too is not a sensible option. In the end, he raises his hand to give her a short wave. She smiles and responds in kind. Then, she turns to walk away. They both had taken different dates to the dance. Her date was quite a bore and wanted to sit at the table and joke with friends instead of dancing. His date wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest - she wanted to remain in perpetual motion. Still, they made a real show of having fun even though they felt miserable inside. They spent the whole evening looking over their shoulder at each other. What should have been a warm and happy memory became tainted with jealousy and rage. He had tried to talk to her once that night, but she purposely turned away when she saw him. It felt like a knife to his gut. Filled with wounded pride, he responded by declaring war on her. The last few months in school, spread some unkind rumours about her. She was strong, and denied them. He felt awed and angry, in unison, at her calm and grace. Then, with graduation, they went their separate paths and managed to avoid crossing them... until now. ‘Wait!’ Rebecca stops as Robert calls after her. ‘Sorry, I just never asked. What brings you to the hospital?’ Rebecca looks down, then sighs, ‘I had come to donate plasma - we recently recovered from the virus. I wanted to do what I could to those who were still suffering...’ Robert takes a deep breath. He knows better than to ask who the other part of ‘we’ was. He can feel the rush fade, and all at once he feels very much his current age. Coming out of this sudden, unexpected rollercoaster tires him out. He can feel the years that separates Dr Song from the 17 year old Robert who passionately loved Rebecca the way only a teenager can. The emotions were wild and fierce, and as invigorating as it was destructive. He has experienced a lot since then, and changed even more. ‘I’m glad you’re better Rebecca. It really was lovely to run into you after so long.’ This time he fishes out his card and hands it to her. ‘If you ever need any cosmetic work done, give me a call. I better get going too. Take care.’ With that, they part ways again. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is as if some latent guilt he had been carrying about his behaviours in the past dissipates. He isn’t that Robert any more. As he watches her leave, so do the residual feelings or chemistry or sparks. He doesn’t love Rebecca any more. He has known this for a long time, and he chuckles at the visceral reaction that made him question it momentarily. As he tries to clear his daze, Dr Song finally reaches the pathologist’s room where he has come to find out about his wife and son’s health.