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One: Lucky me! Pancit Canton
When she was younger, Trinity Santos believed that if she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could disappear. She spent hours lost in a place and time that existed only in her head. As she jumped from beam to beam and spun around in mindless circles, drowning out the corrections and the praise (especially the praise because that always accompanied the heavy weight of expectations), she would travel to that secret place that was just for her- a place borne of a wish for how her life might be if her parents had stayed in Palawan.
In that imagined life, everything was different.
The air was warm and comforting on her sun-reddened skin; the scent of salt and fried garlic hanging heavy; cousins crowded the house, each of them with a smile just like hers, and loneliness was something that happened to other people in places far far away. That Trinity ran barefoot through sand, feeling the warm kisses on her bare soles instead of walking the empty, manicured streets of their quiet East Coast neighbourhood, in Mary Janes a size too small. That Trinity never learnt how loud a house could feel when half the family was missing. Most importantly, that Trinity never learnt to treasure her independence so much, simply because it was the only thing she had.
Eventually, though, Trinity grew out of daydreams, but that fierce independence that had marked her like a regretful tattoo, remained by her side. It had followed her around for the greater part of her life, starting with the kindergarten reports she always hid down her sleeve, because even back then, she’d known nothing was ever good enough.The words sat there in neat rows of teacherly handwriting, laid out like sacrifices to the vengeful goddess her mother was whilst Trinity flinched as she awaited whatever punishment Mom felt like on the day.
“Independence” wasn’t a virtue, Trinity came to understand, it was code for “doesn’t play well with others” and “has no real friends” and of course, “is incredibly lonely,” the bit of sugar that makes the medicine go down a little more easily. But like all old companions, they had had some good times together, times in which Trinity was thankful that she was the Trinity of this world, the one who could conquer anything and not that soft, spoilt child that existed in her mind.
She had been eight years old the first time she had thought to be truly thankful. Eight years old, too young for the senior girls competitions but that made it all the more important she joined. Her limbs, still flexible in their greenness, had bent and snapped, contorting themselves into shapes sketched by an artist to whom she was simply a tool, like a paintbrush or spare bit of canvas. The routine had gone off without a hitch but all Mom had got for her trouble, as she reminded Trinity the entire two hour long car journey home, was a dull bronze medal.
It hung heavy around Trinity’s neck, announcing her crime like the wooden stocks in the history books she read at school. Somehow the weight felt worse than if she had won nothing at all: third place meant two girls had done better, it meant she had barely placed, it meant she didn’t even have the dignity of being the first to lose.
Mom parked the car and opened the door without saying a word.
There was no celebratory dinner that night. At least, not the kind the other girls talked about at the gym in their strange, secret language of pizza places and milkshakes.
Trinity had lay in bed for a long time that night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet house. She had tried to disappear but the magic of imagination had worn thin without any faith to sustain it so she had simply laid there, quiet, her stomach twisting painfully as it growled and rumbled up a storm.
For some odd reason, the sound threw her back to Palawan, or back to how she had thought it might look from the images she’d seen on the school computer. Except this time, the sea wasn’t a calm blue that gently soothed the burning of the sun, and the sound around her wasn’t the joyous music of laughter, instead it too rumbled all around her, a hurricane that threatened to swallow her up. She’d screamed and thrashed, looking around for the family she was certain existed to save her, or even to resign themselves to the same fate as her, but no one came. She grew cold and weaker, her every resolve washed away by the violent waves, it was so easy to give up, until something nudged her. Her old friend- independence.
So Trinity Santos got out of bed and crept downstairs, softer and quieter as she passed the closed door of Mom and Dad’s bedroom. The house was quiet in the particular way it only ever was after she’d been sent to bed early. No television murmuring from the living room, no music drifting down the hallway. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as she padded across them in her socks.
She hesitated in the kitchen doorway. Technically, she wasn’t allowed to cook. Technically, she wasn’t even supposed to be out of bed. But her stomach twisted again, sharp and insistent, and the bronze medal still hung around her neck like it was trying to remind her what she’d done wrong.
Third place.
Trinity slipped the ribbon over her head and dropped the medal on the counter with a soft clink.
Then she searched through her backpack, she had almost forgotten about it, the bright green packet she’d spotted earlier that day in another girl’s bag. For one reckless moment she had stolen it, her hand moving before fear had time to catch up.“Lucky me,” the words said, “pancit canton.” She had no idea what it meant, but the instructions had a drawing of a girl around her age- “the Palawan Trinity”, she said softly to herself, “why should she get everything?”
The kettle was heavier than she expected, and she had to brace it against the sink to fill it without splashing water everywhere. When she flicked the switch, it roared to life with a sound that felt far too loud for the middle of the night. Trinity froze in fear, listening for the footsteps and the whine of the hinges but all she heard was the kettle, rumbling obediently as it heated.
The noodles came out in a stiff, pale block when she opened the packet. She dropped them carefully into the bowl and when the kettle finally clicked off, she poured the water in slowly, watching the thin yellow strings soften and fatten up. She drained out the water and then tore open the shiny foil of the seasoning packet, the orange grains scattered like sand, coating the noodles in a rich golden colour.
The smell hit her almost immediately, salty and warm and just like her secret world. She waited the full three minutes because the instructions said to, even though her stomach protested the entire time. Then she climbed onto the kitchen chair, curled her legs underneath her, and took the first bite.
It was too hot. It burnt the tip of her tongue and made her eyes water a little, but Trinity kept eating anyway, slurping the noodles with the careful determination of someone who had worked very hard for them. The taste was indescribable, it wasn’t particularly good, though the salt and warmth spread through her stomach in a way that felt miraculous, but she had made them herself. No judges or corrections or disappointed silence.
Just herself and independence close by. By the time the bowl was empty, Trinity felt something new settle comfortably in her chest. Something that she knew she would give anything to feel again.
At fourteen, she stopped stealing. Not because she had grown a conscience, or because the tight, twisting guilt had finally caught up to her, but because she no longer had to. You see the thing about your best friend dying on the first day of high school was that said death came with many changes.
Some of them were immediate. Obvious in an almost obnoxious way, announcing themselves loudly whether you wanted them to or not. There was an empty seat in homeroom now, a scratched out name on the paper rosters they handed out to subs and softened voices that followed her everywhere, people speaking so gently as though grief had made her something fragile that might shatter if handled too roughly. Those were the changes everyone saw, even Mom and Dad, but grief saved the more insidious ones just for her.
They settled into the spaces no one thought to check, into the habits and routines that had once felt so fixed they didn’t need questioning. Trinity found them waiting for her in the pauses between conversations, in the absence of messages that used to come without fail, in the strange, hollow feeling of having something to say and no one to say it to, in the sharpness of silver and the brightness of blood.
It wasn’t like the films, or the books Therapist number one, and the one that came after, had made her read. There was no single moment where it all became too much, no dramatic collapse that demanded attention, before everything righted itself once again. Grief, Trinity discovered, was far more patient than that. It lingered and stretched and made itself at home in even the quiet parts of her life.
At first, people tried. Her parents, in their own way, made an effort. They spoke to her more in those first few weeks than they had in months, hovering at the edges of her room like they weren’t quite sure how to step inside.
“You can talk to us,” Mom said one evening, leaning against the doorframe, “about everything.”
Everything, she tasted the word, felt the weight of it on her tongue as it hung heavy, too big and vague for her to possibly unpack.Trinity sat cross-legged on her bed, a textbook open in front of her, unread.
“I’m okay,” she said, because it was easier than explaining all the ways she wasn’t, besides, she had Independence by her side.
Mom had hesitated for just a second, her eyes softening, the same eyes that stared back at Trinity in the mirror. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, “okay,” she said as her feet padded eagerly away from Trinity and the empty shell she now was, “okay, that’s really good to hear.”
The packets appeared in the cupboard a week after the funeral. Trinity didn’t know who bought them, not really, they were just there one evening, tucked between tins of whey protein and boxes of expired spices, like they’d always belonged, like they hadn’t once been something she’d hidden at the bottom of her bag, heart pounding at the thought of being caught.
“Quick meals,” Mom said absently when she noticed Trinity looking, “in case you don’t feel like eating.”
Trinity nodded, she didn’t say that she rarely felt like eating anymore, she didn’t say that the thought of sitting at the table, of filling the space where something was so clearly missing, made something tight and uncomfortable coil in her chest, but she was certain Mom had noticed the clothes hanging loosely off her and the circles lining her eyes that grew darker and deeper each passing second. Mom didn’t say anything though, not with her words at least, because Trinity was okay.
Later, when the house had settled into its usual quiet, she went downstairs. The kettle was easier now, familiar and she filled it without thinking, flicking the switch and letting the low rumble fill the silence. It didn’t startle her anymore. Nothing really did.
No one came to check, even as the steam roared, they never did.
The packet crinkled softly as she opened it, the noodles sliding out in one solid block. She didn’t need to read the instructions- she hadn’t needed to for a long time.
Three minutes.
She could measure it without a clock.
She poured the water and drained it like before, watching the seasoning packet scatter, the smell rising up almost immediately. It was familiar in a way that should have been comforting. Once, it had been but now like everything else, it just was.
Trinity leaned back against the counter as she waited, arms folded loosely across her chest, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The kitchen felt too bright, the overhead light casting everything in sharp edges and hard lines, but she didn’t turn it off. When the time was up, she didn’t hesitate. She took the bowl, climbed onto the chair out of habit more than necessity, and curled slightly in on herself as she took the first bite.
It was too hot, scalding her tongue a sharp white but she didn’t finch. She twirled the noodles around her fork mechanically, sticking bite after bite down her throat as though she could choke down her tears. The taste barely registered but it filled the emptiness inside of her, anchoring her in something solid and predictable. Something that she could control.
Halfway through, she paused as for a moment, unbidden, a memory surfaced. The sound of laughter, bright and easy, a voice that used to sit beside hers, matching her pace, filling in the gaps before they had a chance to form. It was the Trinity from Palawan, but it wasn’t at the same time, everything felt so confusing but one thing she was sure of was that that Trinity was happy. Happy in a way she would never be.
Trinity blinked as the kitchen came back into focus. The chair across from her was empty. She looked down at the bowl, at the noodles shifting slightly, and exhaled slowly. A few more programmed bites and she was done. She rinsed the bowl immediately, watching the cloudy water swirl down the drain until it disappeared completely as the kitchen returned to manageable stillness.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked faintly. One of her parents shifting in their room, maybe. Awake, maybe not, it didn’t matter because they wouldn’t come down.
Trinity turned off the light and walked back to her bedroom, Independence followed, steady and familiar as ever.
Two: Maruchan 😊
Medicine, unfortunately, did not care for independence. Oh, it claimed it did. Medicine loved to talk about initiative, about bold thinkers and confident decision-making. But medicine was a liar, the truth was that being a doctor meant knowing your place in the hierarchy. It meant recognising that you were just an intern who had to shut up and listen, leaving the actual doctoring to the men who had hours more training than you did. Therefore, it was no wonder that medicine did not like Trinity even though she had given all that she had left to it.
After that shift from hell, what Trinity needed was a drink.
What she needed even more was to make a few more mistakes, enough wrong decisions to drown out the ones she had already made today. The stupid ones. The ones that started with believing the talk about PTMC being an open and supportive environment was anything more than lip service. The ones that ended with her thinking she might actually belong here, that she could actually be a doctor.
The apartment was dark and quiet. Huckleberry, probably grateful to finally have a mattress not filled with old band-aids and wraps of gauze, had long since dozed off at the foot of the spare bed. Trinity should have been asleep too, she had to do it all again tomorrow. But sleep evaded her, it ran miles ahead, leisurely in a way she knew she would never catch. Every time she closed her eyes, the shift replayed itself behind her eyelids: the looks from Langdon, the loudness of his screaming; the silence of Garcia’s disappointment.
She sighed and rolled onto her back.Two in the morning, the glowing numbers on her phone screen stared back at her like a challenge. For a moment she considered making a pack of instant ramen, it at least gave her something to do and she couldn’t remember the last thing she had eaten that day, but even that felt like too much effort. What she needed was noise. Alcohol. The kind of bad decisions that blurred the sharp edges off the rest of them.
So Trinity opened her phone and typed: closest bar to me. She even entered her zip code, too tired to care about silly things like data privacy. Thankfully, there was one only a fifteen minute Uber ride away, so she put her bra back on, along with a clean-ish tank top and baggy pair of jeans, shutting the apartment door quietly behind her as she set out into the dark, empty night.
The bar looked exactly like every other bar Trinity had ever been to: fake leather booths; sticky floors; music loud enough to blur conversation but not loud enough to actually dance to. It was almost something resembling a comforting thought, in a bleak sort of way, the recognition that whenever she reached rock bottom, she could retreat into familiar faux leather seats and shitty, overpriced drinks.
It was quiet tonight, naturally. Weeknights weren’t built for chaos but still, a few groups and even more stragglers like her, dotted the room. Trinity’s attention snagged on one group in particular. A cluster of women sat at a table near the back, clearly a few years older than her and somehow managing to look effortlessly put together despite the empty glasses scattered between them. One of them threw her head back as she laughed, tight curls bleached a bright, reckless blonde. The bar’s low lighting caught on them, making her look almost angelic.
Trinity stared. Then, before her brain could stop her, she smiled and gave the woman a small two-fingered wave. The woman caught her gaze and laughed, bright and teasing.
“Shit,” Trinity muttered to herself, apparently she sucked at being a lesbian too.
She turned quickly to the bar, a blush heating up her cheeks. One hurried order later, a glass appeared in front of her filled with something strong enough to dissolve any remnants of dignity and regret she had left. Trinity took a large gulp, squirming as the drink slithered down her gullet, landing uncomfortably in her stomach.
Then she took another gulp.
“You know,” a voice said beside her, familiar in an unnerving way. The woman sounded calm and rather amused, “that only works if you’re trying to poison yourself.”
Trinity turned in surprise.
“Good,” she said after a moment, “then it’s working.”
The woman’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. Trinity hadn’t yet seen her smile, at least not one dripping in condescension and the knowledge that she was the one with all the power.
“Rough night?”
“Rough career choice.”
That did earn a laugh, a surprising bark that startled Trinity in the best possible way.
“Doctor?”
“Intern,” Trinity corrected bitterly.
“Ah,” the woman said knowingly, “so still in the phase where everyone treats you like a particularly slow medical student.”
Trinity squinted at her,“either you’re psychic,” she said, “or we’ve met before.”
“I doubt it,” the woman continued, her hair was down tonight, the deep brown curls slightly frizzy from the heat as they puffed softly around her face. She looked different in a way, like this, much more approachable than she had looked only a few hours ago. “You must just have one of those faces,” she continued jokingly, “but the last woman I met that looked just like you stabbed me in the foot.”
“She sounds like trouble,” Trinity attempted to mirror the humour, but it came out all wrong, far too much feeling, far too melancholic for an early morning conversation with the hottest woman she’d ever seen. “Shit sorry,” she apologised, “I swear the older I get, the more alcohol really acts like a downer on me.”
“No need to apologise Santos,” Garcia responded easily, like she didn’t even remember the conversation they had had, like she wasn’t the reason Trinity was here, drinking herself into a stupor.
“Erm okay,” she replied dumbly, “cool I guess uhh.”
“Hmm,” Garcia hummed, but Trinity wasn’t sure whether it was in agreement or something else, “can I get you something other than the paint thinner you’re currently drinking?”
“I’m good,” Trinity shook her head. She wanted to make a few bad choices, yes, but there was a difference between sleeping with a woman on the wrong side of fifty and shitting where she ate. Even the alcohol couldn’t kill off that sensible part of her brain, “you should um get back to your friends.” She hadn’t seen Garcia with anyone but women like her didn’t know loneliness like Trinity did, they were much too good for it.
Garcia, strangely, let out a little laugh of disbelief at that, “there’s that spiciness again,” she smirked. It was irritating, the way her eyebrows cocked, the smooth arch carving a few rough lines in her forehead that Trinity wanted to soothe with a kiss. “Sure Santos, I can take a hint,” she put her hands up in surrender as she walked away, walking towards the group of women Trinity had been watching earlier.
The woman with the ash blonde hair said something to Garcia as they looked at Trinity, there was laughter and then Garcia’s eyes, darker in the dim light of the bar, with pupils so dilated that the ring of brown nearly disappeared, met hers. There was a challenge to them, the same look she’d had as she’d guided Trinity’s clumsy hands through the fasciotomy. Suddenly, Trinity was struck with the thought that if she continued to look at her, she would fall apart. Her body would unfold, like the layers of skin, fat and fascia, sliced apart by Garcia’s scalpel.
She held her gaze steadily, packing up her wallet and keys as she hoped Garcia would take the hint one more time and follow her to the Uber she had booked.
For a second, nothing happened. Garcia turned back to her friends, said something Trinity couldn’t quite catch over the music. The blonde laughed again, there was another woman with them, with long dark hair that tickled Garcia’s bare arms in a way that made Trinity seethe ridiculously with jealousy. Dr Walsh, the attending.
Of course.
Trinity looked away first.
“Ride’s here,” the bartender said, not unkindly, sliding her phone a little closer across the counter where she’d left it.
“Thanks,” Trinity muttered, grabbing it quickly, the screen lighting up with the driver’s name and a timer that was already counting down. Two minutes until she got slapped with five extra dollars she couldn’t afford.
She slipped off the stool, forcing herself not to look back as she headed towards the door. The night air hit her immediately, cooler than she expected, sobering in a way that made her regret the alcohol almost instantly.
This was stupid, she thought to herself, all of it. Coming out. Drinking. Looking at Garcia like that, like she wanted something she couldn’t have, like she needed her. Trinity shoved her hands into her pockets and stepped off the kerb, scanning for the licence plates as headlights flashed in recognition.
She moved towards the grey sedan, already reaching for the handle when-
“Santos.”
Trinity froze and slowly, she turned. Somewhere, in a quiet part of her brain, a little thought echoed, ‘there goes my five bucks,’ it said.
Garcia stood a few steps behind her, jacket thrown over one shoulder, curls slightly flattened on one side like she’d run a hand through them on the way out. Up close, she smelled faintly of something warm and expensive, layered over the sharper edge of alcohol.
“You forgot something,” she said.
Trinity frowned, “I have my-” she patted the familiar shape of her wallet in her back pocket.
Garcia held up her lanyard, with the white block capitals reading DOCTOR
Trinity blinked. Right, well she had really only had it for ninety days now so it wasn’t really hers to claim, “thanks” she said anyway, stepping forward to take it, but Garcia didn’t let go immediately, and for a moment their fingers brushed. It was sharp and electrical and entirely too much.
“Rough night?” Garcia asked again, quieter this time, like the question had changed shape somewhere between the bar and the street.
Trinity huffed out a laugh, “come home with me?” she said instead of a reply, her hand grabbing Garcia’s before the other woman could say anything in response.
They drove in silence, arriving to the quiet darkness of her apartment in what felt like no time at all. Trinity cleared her throat, as she led Garcia inside, “you want a drink?” she asked, already moving towards the kitchen before she could answer, the nerves taking a hold of her.
“I’m good Santos,” Garcia responded, following her into the small kitchen that was hardly big enough for one person. Trinity found herself pressed against the cold metal of the sink, the glass she’d hurriedly fetched abandoned as Garcia stared down at her. “Kiss me,” she said without any warning.
Trinity trembled slightly, it was a little cold and their landlord could be a dick about heating but that wasn’t really the reason why. She looked up at Garcia, traced over her soft pink lips with her eyes.
“Go on,” the other woman goaded, “we both know you’ve been thinking about it since this morning.”
Trinity flushed, “yesterday morning,” she corrected obstinately but Garcia didn’t seem to mind as she took matters into her own hands and grasped the sides of Trinity’s face much too delicately for a drunken mistake.
Her lips were actually even softer than they looked. Trinity felt like that one model of a homunculus they had passed around in med school orientation as every part of her body lucky enough to have sensory nerves sought out Garcia, from the way she tasted, sharp with tequila to the way she felt, the wiry muscles flexing as she held Trinity close, to the soft sounds coming from her mouth. The mouth Trinity was currently exploring.
It was dangerous, just how much Trinity liked it. She’d had her fair share of hookups of course, going to an historically female college was the best decision eighteen year old her had made for her burgeoning sexuality, but she had never once felt this close to losing control. Independence beckoned her close and she flipped their positions so that Garcia was the one trembling below her.
“Santos!” Garcia gasped out as Trinity’s fingers cupped her hot centre through the thin silk of the dress she had on, “god I knew you were trouble.”
Trinity’s eyes stung slightly at the words, they were familiar in a way Garcia would never know, familiar in a way that sounded like friendly, no sisterly memories. “Hold this,” she said gruffly, yanking up the hem of Garcia’s dress up to her lower abdomen as she forced the thin cotton panties to the side.
“Santos, ahh,” Garcia continued to moan, it was almost embarrassing how unashamed she was. Trinity traced over her cunt, her fingers lightly tapping the puffy lips, gathering up the moisture greedily before her curls could soak it up.
“... uh I need,” Garcia was saying something but she kept trailing off as Trinity continued her ministrations, Garcia’s clit was throbbing unhappily, nearly red in anger over Trinity ignoring it, but she continued her light strokes, inside and outside. “I need to sit down,” Garcia finally managed to gasp out, “be- nghhh, bedroom.”
That wasn’t the best idea, there was something about fucking in Trinity’s bed that sounded alarms in her head but she nodded anyway, letting Garcia wrap her trembling legs around her waist as she carried her to her bed with the dirty sheets. If she was good, Garcia wouldn’t even notice.
And she was, she spent the night disappearing once more, this time to a world with just her and Garcia’s soaking wet pussy, with special visits from her tits with the dusty brown, perfectly peaked nipples, too. The day lightened up with sunlight as she drew orgasm after orgasm from Garcia until eventually, the other woman had to come up for air.
“I’m not a selfish lover,” she gasped out eventually when Trinity let her have some reprieve, “I want to-”
Trinity cut her off abruptly, “I know but I don’t.”
And with those words, she walked off to Huckleberry’s bathroom, leaving Yolanda to clean up and get out. The door clicked shut behind her as she entered quietly, ignoring Whitaker’s soft snore. For a moment, Trinity just stood there, hands braced against the sink, staring at her own reflection like it might offer something useful.
It didn’t.
Her hair was a mess, flattened on one side, frizzing out on the other. There was a faint smudge of something brown all over her face, Garcia’s foundation. She looked exactly how she felt: frayed at the edges, held together just enough to pass.“Good,” she muttered to herself, reaching for the tap. The water was cold and sharp, something she could feel. She washed her face quickly, mechanically, scrubbing harder than necessary like she could wipe away the remnants of the night along with the makeup. When she looked up again, her skin was damp, flushed slightly from the cold. It wasn’t exactly regret that ebbed at her heart but it was something close enough to it.
Trinity dried her hands on a towel and took a steadying breath.By the time she stepped back into the hallway, she expected the apartment to be empty, but instead, the kitchen light was on, a bright yellow that twitched.
Trinity stilled.
The low, familiar rumble of boiling water filled the space too, cutting cleanly through the silence she had been expecting. For a second, her brain lagged behind the sound, trying to place it, to understand why it was there because she hadn’t turned it on.
Slowly, she rounded the corner.
Yolanda stood by the counter, back half-turned, one hand resting lightly against the edge as she watched the saucepan with a patience that didn’t feel entirely real. She was wearing one of Trinity’s old t-shirts, the faded vinyl reading All Star Gym, and a pair of borrowed boxers too with her hair in two damp, thick braids.
The packet of instant ramen sat open beside her. Trinity’s packet that she got five for a dollar fifty at the corner store across from her apartment. She didn’t speak as she watched Garcia tip the solid block into the boiling water along with some tired looking vegetables Trinity must have had lost in the corner of the fridge somewhere.
“Eat,” Garcia said at last, pulling out two matching bowls. It was close to the seven AM Trinity had to leave for and the whole situation just felt strange but she nodded, even as Independence bristled beside her, grabbing a warm bowl from Yolanda.
Three: Samyang Buldak 2x Spicy (Nuclear Edition)
It happened an hour before her shift was over. She hated that hour, Dennis called it the witching hour because he’d overhead Kim say that once and he was in the phase of having a crush that made you stupid enough to copy everything said crush said or did. Kim was right, Trinity supposed, there was something in the minutes before the hour hand tilted in its axis towards the end, something that made everything go impossibly wrong. It was almost ritualistic, the way the worst cases always seemed to arrive when Trinity was already running on empty, when her brain felt slow and her body even slower. Like medicine itself was testing her, pushing just a little further each time to see where she would break.
“Abdominal distention,” the triage note read, “shortness of breath and reduced appetite.” The patient was young, only thirty five so Trinity picked up the chart, already running through the differentials in her head as she made her way over: obstruction possibly or something inflammatory, maybe. Something she could list, categorise, present neatly to someone more qualified.
She pushed the light green curtain to one side as she entered, her hand already holding up her badge as she introduced herself. “Hi I’m Dr Santos, and I’ll be-“ she paused, the room was full.
It wasn’t crowded exactly but it was full in a way that felt intentional. A woman sat on the stark white linen, small despite the obvious swelling of her abdomen, her hands folded loosely over it like she was trying to hold herself together. Around her, clustered close, almost protectively, were at least seven other people. Different ages, different faces, but the same eyes and smiles.
A family.
They all turned as Trinity walked in. Her patient looked at her, Nour Ahmed, according to her chart, the whites of her eyes were a glowing yellow, almost supernatural in their quality or rather more like bad special effects in a budget film. She was young, yes, but looking at her Trinity already knew that something was very wrong.
Nour smiled,“hi, doctor.”
It grated at Trinity in a way, the expectation hidden within the phrase, but she nodded anyway, stepping forward and slipping into the role as more easily now. “Hi,” she said, voice steady, professional, “can I ask you a few questions?”
The family shifted slightly, making space for her without moving far. No one left; all seven of them stayed, through the history, through the examination, through the pauses where Trinity tried to find the right words, the right tone, the right balance between clinical detachment and something softer, something human.
It would have been easier if they’d stepped out, Trinity thought to herself, if it had just been the two of them, an execution without an audience. Instead, every answer was witnessed. Every hesitation, every carefully chosen phrase, absorbed by eight pairs of eyes that didn’t miss a thing.
“How long has the swelling been there?” Trinity asked.
“A few months,” the woman replied, “it got worse recently, it’s affecting my breathing sometimes,” that wasn’t good, “but Alhamdullilahi there’s never any pain,” that wasn’t good either.
A daughter, Trinity assumed, with dark brown hair in pigtails tied in place by little pink bows, reached out, resting a hand over Nour’s, with more emotional intelligence than any child ought to have. Trinity looked away and swallowed harshly.
She asked a few more questions even though she knew what the yellowing meant, she felt the lump in her abdomen and noted the lack of pain. It was a medical student question, painless jaundice is always what until proven otherwise?
“I’m just going to discuss this with my senior,” she said, instead. Medicine liked team work, “we’ll run some tests and-”
“And what do you think it is?”
The question came from an older gentleman, with a bushy beard and tired but kind eyes. It was direct and unflinching.
Trinity froze, she was sixteen again, standing in a space where something irreversible had already happened, where the truth existed whether or not anyone said it out loud.
“I think,” Trinity said carefully, the way they had been taught to manage patient expectations, “we need to do some imaging first before we can say anything definitive.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.
The father held her gaze for a second longer, like he understood that, like he saw right through the careful neutrality Trinity had wrapped herself in.
Then he nodded, “okay.”
Just okay.
It was cancer, of course it was. The tumour had metastasised to her lungs and her liver. By the time the scans came back, by the time the consultants spoke in low, serious voices just outside the curtain, by the time Trinity stood there pretending to be useful, it had already become something inevitable.
There were no raised voices or dramatic scenes, just a quiet that settled over everything, heavy and absolute.
Trinity watched as the family closed in around the bed, bodies angling towards one another, hands reaching out, connecting, holding.
No one stepped away, or left. There was no space left for independence there.
Trinity made it through the straggling minutes of the rest of her shift, without a single tear. She presented and charted, nodded in all the right places and let the corrections bounce on her bruised skin without complaint, like she always did. When Robby finally dismissed her, she didn’t go home.
The break room had an odd quality to it this time of night. It was quieter than it ever was during the day, stripped of its usual chaos; no half-finished conversations, no bickering over who had stolen whose yoghurt, no Dennis loudly recounting some story she had not asked to hear. Just the low hum of the vending machine and the flicker of fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead.
Trinity stood in the doorway for a moment, like she wasn’t entirely sure why she was there. She didn’t sit down or shrug her backpack off her shoulders; didn’t do anything that might make it look like she was settling in.
Instead, she walked straight to the cupboard at the far end of the room. There was always food here. Not good food, not even particularly edible food, but things that existed for the sole purpose of being quick and easy and forgettable.Her fingers closed around a packet before she properly registered what it was, it was a red several shades too bright and loud, like the danger of a poisonous frog.
Trinity let out a quiet breath through her nose,“perfect,” she muttered.
The kettle was already half full. Someone had used it earlier and not bothered to empty it out, which felt like a small mercy. She flicked the switch, the familiar roar filling the silence, louder in the empty room. She tore the packet open, less careful than usual, the noodles cracking slightly as they hit the bottom of the bowl. The sauce packet followed, thick, dark and sticky like tar, or blood, congealed and ignored. The water went in too early, steam rising fast and sharp, the smell hitting her almost immediately, spicy in a way that felt less like a warning.
Good.
Trinity picked up the fork before the noodles had properly softened. The first bite was immediate- heat. Painful heat that bloomed across her tongue, down her throat, into her chest, sharp and relentless and impossible to ignore. Her eyes watered instantly, vision blurring as her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
She swallowed anyway and once more after that, over and over again, faster each time like she was chasing it. Like if she could just feel enough,if she could overwhelm everything else with something simpler, something physical, her chest might finally loosen.
Her throat burnt in protest and tears rushed down her cheeks, her breathing hitching slightly with each swallow. Trinity braced one hand against the counter, the other still gripping the fork as she forced down another mouthful, jaw tightening against the heat.
She thought of Nour and of the way her family had closed in around her, hands layered over hands, bodies angled towards one another like they were building something solid out of nothing but presence. She thought of Cecelia and how she hadn’t had that, how Trinity was supposed to have been family to her, how Trinity, the one from this world and not Palawan, had never been any good at that.
For a second, it felt like something might give. Like the pressure in her chest might finally crack open into something sharp and uncontrollable and honest. Cry, she screamed at herself, just do it and get it over with.
Her grip tightened on the counter, but no real tears came, just the reaction to the noodles. A laugh slipped out instead, thin and humourless, catching awkwardly in her throat as it mixed with the burn of the noodles.
“Santos.”
Trinity flinched, the fork clattered slightly against the bowl as she turned too quickly, eyes still watering, vision not quite steady.
Garcia stood in the doorway, still in her deep purple scrubs, the same purple as the day bleeding into the night sky. Her hair pulled back in its usual two buns, though strands had escaped, curling loosely around her face like she hadn’t had time to fix it. Her gaze moved quickly, taking in the scene with an ease that made Trinity’s stomach twist.
“Jesus,” Garcia said quietly, stepping inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click, “what are you doing?”
They had hooked up a few more times since the first time; Trinity had never let the other woman touch her, but it felt dangerous all the same.
“Eating,” Trinity shot back automatically, though her voice came out rougher than she intended.
Garcia didn’t react to the tone, she stretched her hand out then, not fast or forcefully, and took the fork from Trinity’s hand.
Trinity didn’t fight her, she didn't even really try. There was something about Garcia that seemed to chase Independence away.
The room fell quiet again, the hum of the vending machine suddenly too loud in the absence of everything else. Garcia reached for a cup, filled it with water, and held it out.
Trinity stared at it for a second before taking it, fingers brushing briefly against Garcia’s as she did. The coolness helped, grounding her, dulling the edge of the burn just enough to make it bearable. “I’m okay,” she said, after a few desperate gulps.
Garcia didn’t answer straight away, Trinity braced for it, for the nod and relieved acceptance- the easy way out. “That bad?” Garcia asked softly, her eyes widening as she bent to Trinity’s level.
Trinity’s throat tightened as she shook her head, she wasn’t any good at this, “no, it’s just-” she stopped, the sentence collapsing in on itself before it could form properly, “it’s just a patient.”
Garcia didn’t interrupt, watching quietly as she waited for Trinity to continue.
Trinity let out a shaky breath, something uneven breaking through the control she’d been holding onto all day. “They came in together,” she said, staring down at the counter. “All of them. They didn’t leave. Not even once.” The surprise in her voice was obvious.
Garcia stepped closer, but not close enough to touch. Trinity hated being touched when she was upset but she wished to all gods that Garcia would hold her close. “You don’t have to be okay Trinity,” she said instead, and it was somehow the most devastating thing Trinity had ever heard.
Trinity laughed, a small, broken sound, “can I kiss you?” she asked instead, her eyes desperate for the distraction.
Garcia sighed and Trinity nearly thought she might say no, “You’d have to brush your teeth before that,” was what came out, “hope your farm boy has learned which toothbrush is his.”
Trinity laughed again, this time a little easier, as she let Yolanda take her home.
Four: Cup Noodles
Find a therapist. It wasn’t the first time Trinity had heard those words. She still remembered the months that defined her sixteenth year on earth, the same way you always remembered the story behind a scar, sitting across from a woman with kind eyes and a voice too soft to feel real, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was holding something fragile between them.
“I think it might help,” she’d said gently.
Trinity had nodded, because that was what you did when adults expected something from you. She’d nodded and said okay and let her parents schedule the appointment, let them drive her there in silence, let them sit too far apart in the waiting room like grief was something contagious.They hadn’t pushed. That was the thing she remembered most clearly, even now, not the questions or careful pauses, not even the way the therapist had tried to say Cecelia’s name like it mattered.Just the absence of resistance.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Mom had said after the second session, voice quiet, almost apologetic.
And Trinity hadn’t wanted to, so she hadn’t. And that had been the end of it.
Robby had made them all talk to someone after Pittfest so the hospital execs might have a solution to pat themselves on the back for, but that had been even more useless than her first foray. Different room, same script. A different kind of kind-eyed stranger this time, pen poised over a notepad, waiting for Trinity to say something worth writing down. Waiting for something honest, something messy, something that could be labelled and processed and eventually filed away as progress.
“How are you feeling about everything that happened?” they’d asked.
Trinity had shrugged, “okay.”
It was always enough. No one pushed, not really. Not past the first attempt, not past the polite insistence that dissolved the second it met resistance. People liked the idea of helping more than they liked the reality of it, she’d learnt early on. Liked offering the door, didn’t care enough to see if anyone actually walked through it.
Trinity exhaled slowly, the memory thinning at the edges as the present pushed back in, sharper, louder. The echo of Garcia’s voice didn’t soften the way the others had.
“Find a therapist.” Garcia hadn’t said it gently; she hadn’t meant it gently.
Trinity let the door fall shut behind her, the click sharper than it should have been in the open space of the empty rooftop. For a second, she just stood there, shoulders tight, jaw set, like she was holding herself in place through sheer force. Then she moved, crossing to the edge and sitting down in one smooth motion, like if she stopped moving she might have to think.
She didn’t want to think, thinking led to feeling, and feeling-
Trinity huffed out a quiet, humourless breath, dragging a hand down her face. “Yeah,” she muttered to no one, voice rougher than she expected, “that’s going great.” She guessed she could say goodbye to the months of exhilarating sex now.
The cupnoodle package was still in her hand, she didn’t remember bringing it up with her, but the hot steam rose from the lid and licked at the dry skin of her fingers, almost burning. Her thumb pressed absentmindedly against the lid, feeling the give of the plastic without opening it.
Below, something cracked sharply, a firework, bright and brief, colour bleeding across the sky before disappearing just as quickly. Trinity watched it fade, expression blank, it reminded her, like most things did of Garcia. She’d come in just like that, a bright and brief spark in the dark emptiness of Trinity’s life. It would have been easier, she thought distantly, if Garcia had just left it alone. If she’d nodded, like everyone else always did. If she’d let Trinity say I’m okay and accepted it for what it was.
The door behind her creaked open. Trinity didn’t turn around to check, she knew the sound of those footsteps.
“You know,” Whitaker’s voice said, somewhere just behind and to the left, “there are less dramatic ways to avoid people.”
Trinity let out a slow breath, something almost like a laugh catching on the edge of it, “didn’t realise I was being dramatic.”
“Perched on a roof during a fireworks show?” he said, stepping closer.
“And what if I just wanted a better view than trying to see through the sweaty masses down there?” she jutted her thumb backwards towards the door.
Dennis smiled a little at that, “So Langdon’s back?”
Trinity laughed, “you’re really not subtle,” Dennis wasn’t really good at the feelings type of thing, it wasn’t how their friendship, if she could even call it that, worked, but he was trying, she supposed. “I didn’t notice,” she continued dryly.
Another firework split the sky open, light catching briefly against the edges of everything before fading back into dark. Whitaker didn’t smile this time.He shifted slightly, hands in his scrub pockets, gaze moving from the sky back to her. “Right,” he said, like he was working up the courage to call it out directly.
Trinity rolled the cup between her palms, the heat seeping into her skin, something to focus on that wasn’t him, or Garcia, or the echo of words she hadn’t quite managed to shake.
“You going to eat that,” Dennis asked after a moment, nodding towards the cup.
Trinity huffed out a quiet breath, “haven’t decided that yet.”
Silence settled again, softer this time.
Below them, the city carried on like nothing had shifted. Sirens in the distance, laughter bleeding up from the streets, another crack of fireworks that came too loud and too sudden before dissolving into nothing. Dennis leaned back slightly against the wall, not looking at her now, giving her the out.
“Garcia?” he said eventually; he’d found the courage he was looking for.
It wasn’t really a question, Trinity’s fingers stilled briefly against the lid before she forced them to move again, peeling at the edge just enough to break the seal without fully opening it. “Something like that,” she replied.
“Mm.”
Another pause.
“She told me to get a therapist,” Trinity added, like it didn’t matter, like she was commenting on the weather.
Dennis let out a small breath through his nose, “Yeah, that’s um,” he paused trying to find the words. Trinity glanced at him then, just briefly.
“She meant it,” she said, quieter now, “she doesn’t need my baggage Huck.”
Dennis didn’t respond straight away, he just nodded once, like he was filing that away somewhere. “Do you?” he asked after a moment.
Trinity frowned slightly. “Do I what?”
“Need one, need a therapist?.”
The question landed softer than Garcia’s had, but it landed all the same. Trinity looked back out at the skyline, at the bursts of colour that never quite lasted long enough to mean anything. “…probably,” she said eventually, it surprised her, the honesty of it.
Dennis hummed.Trinity let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh.
Another firework split the sky, brighter this time, loud enough that Trinity felt it in her chest more than she heard it. Her thumb pressed harder into the lid, finally pushing it open properly. Steam rose up, curling into the night air before disappearing just as quickly.
“You ever notice,” she said after a moment, voice quieter now, “how people only stay when they don’t have a choice?”
Dennis frowned slightly, “that’s… a pretty bleak take.”
“It’s a realistic one.”
He shook his head a little but agreed anyway, “yeah, I guess you’re right,” he shrugged “people leave when they have a choice. Staying’s always the harder part.”
Trinity let out a quiet, humourless breath, “and I manage to make it even harder.”
A soft look cut across Dennis’ face, “maybe,” he said instead, “but from my experience you’re really good at making it easy for them to. For me to stay.”
Trinity went still, the words settling somewhere uncomfortably close to something she didn’t want to examine too closely. “Goodnight, Whitaker,” she said after a beat, not looking at him.
There was a pause, like he was deciding whether to push it further, and then,“yeah,” he said finally, pushing himself off the wall, “night, Santos.”
The door creaked open, then shut again, leaving her alone with the distant noise of the city and the fading echo of fireworks.Trinity stared down at the noodles in her hands.
She took a bite.
It had gone cold.
She ate it all anyway.
Tonkotsu
Listed amongst the most embarrassing things a twenty-first century working woman could do, in the top ten in fact, was downloading a dating app. The bold ‘H’ stared at her menacingly from the small tile on her phone, as though it was daring her to give up herself to it.
She laughed a little at her dramatics as she opened the app. It was going to be temporary, she told herself, just a quick and practical way to teach herself there was more to relationships than random hookups no matter how mind blowing the hookups could be. It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that she had not seen Dr Garcia, at least not in a non-professional context, for around 4 weeks now (and 3 days but who was counting.
All those old English poets were liars, and the worst sort of liars, the ones who told the truth no one wanted to hear. Absence did not make her heart grow fonder of Yolanda, but it didn’t make the feelings disappear either. Instead, it just stretched it all out, thickening the walls of her heart so the muscle squeezed and spasmed with more power than it ought to have, each beat draining every ounce of strength she had. She couldn’t live like that, and according to the patient- that footballer who’s suddenly collapsed with ventricular hypertrophy so plentiful, the cardiologists had fluttered around him like stunned paparazzi- no one could, so she took Huckleberry’s (unsolicited) advice and began her adventure in lesbian online dating.
Setting up the profile didn’t take too long. She stole away to the bus stop on the far side of the hospital car park, the one not even the smokers liked to walk across to so that she would escape the nosy interest of her friends. They knew far too much about her already.
The profile came together in under ten minutes. Name. Age. Job, she hesitated briefly at that, thumb hovering over the screen before settling on something deliberately vague. Doctor felt like an invitation for questions she didn’t want to answer, and she was done with the semi incestuous doctor x doctor relationships so she left it as healthcare. Choosing the photos was easier, she chose ones where she looked good of course, but too good to be truly her, to feel like a confession. A group shot from Crash’s twenty first, her eyes glazed over because Garcia hadn’t texted back in days (it had been days then, now it was weeks, tomorrow it would be months). A mirror selfie from her white coat ceremony, cropped just above her shoulders, her naive grin bright enough to feel painful, and the beginnings of her stethoscope on show. She skipped the prompts twice before filling them in with the bare minimum in what she hoped was a flirty way.
The first few matches trickled in. Trinity picked one of the first ones quickly, asking her on a date before her fifteen minute lunch break was over, thankful that for the first time in a while she’d have weekend plans that didn’t involve Huckleberry’s pitying invites to Amy’s farm and STEP3 prep.
Her date’s name was, and Trinity had to think about it for a second, Clara, maybe, or Farrah, something soft and forgettable in the way that didn’t quite stick. She was pretty in an uncomplicated way too, easy to talk to and quick to laugh.They met at a ramen place not far from the hospital. Trinity hadn’t realised what it was when she suggested it, or maybe she had. Maybe some part of her had known exactly what she was doing.
The restaurant was warm, softly lit, the air thick with the rich, savoury scent of broth that had been simmering for hours. It was a far cry from the MSG and sodium laden packets in her cupboard.
“Have you been here before?” Yara asked, smiling as she glanced around, she’d brought a small bunch of flowers for Trinity, presenting them with an eager smile that made her teeth itch.
Trinity shook her head, “no, not really.” It wasn’t quite a lie but it wasn’t the truth either, she had walked past it once, with Yolanda. They hadn’t gone in, it wasn’t what they did.
“Well, everything’s really good,” Yara said, scanning the menu, “you can’t really go wrong and if you do, just ask for a bite of mine,” she added with a flirty smile.
Trinity nodded, eyes skimming over the options without really seeing them, pointing at something near the top when the waiter came round.
“Good choice,” Yara said easily, “I knew you had good taste, that’s my favourite.”
Of course it was.
Yara talked about her job, something in marketing, flexible and creative in a way Trinity couldn’t quite relate to. She spoke about friends, about weekends, about little things that filled her life in ways that sounded full. Trinity responded where appropriate, she asked questions and smiled at the right moments.
She was good at this. Good at being present even when she disappeared.
Across the table, Yara laughed at something Trinity had said, “you’re funny,” she said, her delicate hand, decorated with rings that looked like spun sugar gently trailed up Trinity’s forearm.
She blinked, piloerection- goosebumps. “Am I?”
Yara grinned, “yeah. In a dry way.”
Trinity hummed noncommittally, reaching for her water instead of responding, watching as Yara’s hand fell away quietly.
The bowls arrived shortly after. Steam curled upwards, carrying with it a deep, rich aroma that filled the space between them. The broth was darker than what Trinity was used to, opaque and heavy, the surface shimmering slightly under the low light. It was intentional, carefully made.
She picked up her chopsticks and hesitated.Three minutes, the thought came before she could stop it, always three minutes, before the first bite. She almost laughed.
“Everything okay?” Yara asked.
“Yeah,” Trinity said quickly, shaking her head slightly, “just um hungry.”
She took a sip of the broth. It was rich and savoury, layered in a way that slowly unfolded across her tongue. It should have been comforting, but all Trinity could taste was the wrongness. She swallowed, setting her spoon down carefully.
“You don’t like it?” Yara asked.
“No, it’s okay,” Trinity said automatically, and she wasn’t lying. That wasn’t the issue. She tried again, this time with the noodles, lifting them carefully, watching as they slipped back into the broth in a way that felt almost rehearsed. The first bite sat heavily in her mouth, the noodles were bouncy, perfectly cutting through the rendered fat of the meat, it wasn’t too hot or too sharp, the salt faultlessly balanced too.
Across from her, Yara was still talking, something about a trip she had planned, a group of friends, a beach somewhere warm and distant. Palawan. Trinity continued to nod, Yara was for the Trinity from Palawan, the one who had known nothing wrong in life. Her attention focused on the quiet absence of something that should have been there and wasn’t. If Yolanda was here, the thought came unbidden, she would have said something now. Something mean and dry, funny in an unwilling way, mildly condescending too, just to tempt Trinity to bite her harder the next time they were together.
She would have- Trinity stopped herself.
Across the table, Yara tilted her head slightly, “you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” Trinity said easily, too easily.
Yara nodded. Why wouldn’t she? Trinity thought, that was how it always worked. Trinity looked down at the bowl again, at the carefully constructed layers, the effort, the intention behind something that was supposed to be shared, experienced, enjoyed. It tasted like nothing, no, that wasn’t it, it just didn’t taste like her, like Yolanda. Didn’t taste like late nights and bad decisions and quiet kitchens, and the quiet hope for something more. It didn’t taste like letting go of Independence and replacing it with trust.
She exhaled slowly and set the chopsticks down. “I’m sorry,” she said, cutting across whatever Yara had been saying.
Yara blinked, “for what?”
Trinity hesitated, because there wasn’t a neat way to say this, no clean explanation that didn’t make her sound worse than she already felt. “I don’t think I should be here,” she said finally.
Yara’s expression shifted, confusion first, then something softer. Understanding, maybe. Or at least an attempt at it.
“Did I do something or”
“No,” Trinity said quickly, “no, you didn’t. It’s just-” she glanced down at the bowl one last time, at the broth and the noodles and everything it wasn’t. “I’m not over someone,” she said, “I miss her too much.”
+1: Lucky Us!
She didn’t go straight to Yolanda that night, that would have been too pathetic, even for her, and Yara, sweet Yara didn’t deserve that. She didn’t go to Yolanda the day after either, or the day after that, in fact, she let two weeks pass by languidly, fourteen whole days steeping in the knowledge that she wanted more than just casual with Yolanda.
It wasn’t exactly fear that made her hide away, ignoring the delivered messages. Trinity Santos, at least the one from this world, hardened by years of being who she was, did not scare easily. It was something worse, that quiet, creeping understanding that there was no gain without loss, that wanting Yolanda meant giving something up in return.
Independence, her oldest companion. Her most reliable one and the only one who stayed. And sure, a few months, years if she was lucky, with Yolanda made it seem like a fair trade. Tempting, even. But Trinity couldn’t shake the thought that when Yolanda eventually left, and she would, because everyone did, she would be worse off than before, that whatever loneliness she carried now would come back sharper, heavier and much less manageable than it had ever been.
That was what reduced any ounce of bravery she had into dust, so much that Yolanda had been the one to find her. It had not been dramatic, sweeping like pre 9/11 airport chase sequences, or the impossibility of love being power enough for a man to overtake a moving car. Yolanda had not come round to her apartment with a boombox or box of chocolates, she had just been there one day, a random day in September.
Trinity had just finished a shift, it wasn’t a bad one or a good one, just the kind that blurred at the edges the moment it ended. She stepped out into the evening air, already reaching for her phone, already preparing herself for the quiet of her apartment. And then she stopped, because by the low wall of the staff exit, with her arms crossed loosely and posture relaxed in a way that felt entirely at odds with the expression on her face, was Yolanda Garcia.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said once she spotted Trinity. It wasn’t exactly an accusation, there was no edge to it, not like their last conversation had been, all sharp angles and bitter words.
Trinity exhaled slowly, and stuffed her hands in her pockets, almost wishing she could stuff her whole body in the polyester too, “I’ve been avoiding you,” she echoed, she liked Yolanda too much to lie to her.
“Why?”
Trinity liked that Yolanda was straightforward. The whole world was confusing, it often felt like everyone was in on a secret joke they didn’t want to let her in on, and she was forced to bumble along confused whilst everyone else seemed to understand. Yolanda had never made her feel like that, but the question made her wince all the same.
Trinity let out a small, humourless laugh, glancing away, “you really want me to answer that?”
“Yes, I do, Santos.”
Fuck, there was no escape. Trinity nodded slowly, like she was bracing herself, “because it was easier,” she said, “because I thought if I just um stopped, it would all go away.”
Yolanda didn’t respond immediately, so Trinity kept going, “it didn’t,” she added, quieter now.
“Yeah,” Yolanda said at last, her voice soft, “I figured,” she uncrossed her arms, she wasn’t in scrubs and the cotton of the button down shirt she had on wrinkled across the bends of her elbows, “you didn’t seem like the ghosting type, felt a bit out of character.” She sounded hurt.
Trinity huffed, half in anger at herself for making Yolanda feel this way, the other half in annoyance at Yolanda herself for the entire Langdon clusterfuck, “you don’t know me well enough.”
Yolanda’s lips curved up faintly, “ten months is a long time,” she countered, and to that Trinity had no retort. Ten months was a long time.
“I took your advice,” Trinity said instead, changing the topic, “started talking to someone,”
Yolanda’s face fell a little at that, it was surprising until Trinity realised how she must sound.
“No, not in that way,” she corrected, “um a therapist. It was good advice even though I don’t think you meant it to be.”
Yolanda bristled slightly, and then she looked contrite, her eyes widening, “hmm,” she began, “how’s it going?”
“Shit,” Trinity let out a startled laugh, and it was a small credit to the sessions she’d had that she continued, “but it’s helping. Just a little bit.”
“I’m glad,” Yolanda responded, and it sounded truthful, “you’re right, I shouldn’t have said that, not because I didn’t mean it or I’m not glad you’re getting help now but because it was cruel,” she took a deep breath, “I was cruel.”
Trinity hated apologies, there was always too much emptiness in them, too little for her to do save for accepting it and acting like all had been forgiven. She didn’t know how to do that, she didn’t want to do that, because it hadn’t just been the words Yolanda had said, it was how she had said them, how easily they had come from her mouth like Trinity was nothing but an inconvenience.
“You said I was trouble,” Trinity replied after a moment, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp for it, “I did the right thing, yeah I don’t ‘play well with others’ but I thought we were-,” she paused, “I did the right thing and you said I was trouble.”
Yolanda didn’t flinch, “I did,” she admitted, “I- Langdon was a friend and I let that blind me. I let my care for him get in the way.”
That threw Trinity more than anything else could have, there was no deflection, no softening.
Yolanda shifted her weight slightly, hands dropping to her sides, “I was frustrated,” she continued, “and I took it out on you, that’s not an excuse,” she added quickly, “I think I just let things get too muddled. I care about you Trinity and I cared about how you looked to everyone, I didn’t want people to talk.”
“They already do,” Trinity replied, her jaw tightening.
“I know but I didn’t want things to be harder on you,” she sighed, “it’s a role we have to play in this world, we don’t, we,” she repeated, “don’t get second chances like the Langdons of this world and I didn’t want that to be the reason why you didn’t achieve all the great things I know you would.”
“Right and telling me to put on my big girl panties was you helping me?”
Yolanda winced.
Good.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” she said again, more firmly this time, “not like that. Not to you, I was wrong,” she added, the words hanging there, heavy but uncomplicated.
Trinity crossed her arms, something defensive settling back into place out of instinct more than intention, “you weren’t wrong about him being back,” she said, “or about me having to deal with it.”
Yolanda shook her head slightly, “that’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Trinity shot back.
“The point,” Yolanda said, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to close the distance slightly, “is that you came to me with something that mattered to you, and instead of listening, I shut you down.”
Trinity stiffened, because that was it, that was the thing she hadn’t quite been able to put into words.
Yolanda exhaled slowly, “yes, you were being unprofessional,” she added, “ I mean, of course you were, you were angry and scared and you had every right to be.”
Trinity’s throat tightened slightly, she swallowed it down, “doesn’t change the fact that I still have to work with him,” she muttered.
“No,” Yolanda agreed, “it doesn’t, but you’re more than just shitty ramen and nights in bed to me Trinity, you shouldn’t have to deal with it all on your own.”
Trinity shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how close they were standing, how easy it would be to reach out, to close the gap completely. Something inside of her brain sounded, a little too late, it said, but her want, her simple desire to forgive Yolanda so that they could go back to how they had been, actually be better than how they had been before, was loud enough to drown it out.
“My ramen isn’t shitty,” was what she said eventually, because she wasn’t ready to say anything else.
Yolanda blinked, and then, to Trinity’s mild surprise, she laughed, not loud, not mocking, just something soft that slipped out before she could stop it, “isn’t it?” she retorted, reaching out to take Trinity’s hand in hers, “come home with me?” she added, a touch more tentative this time.
Trinity looked down at the ground, because she knew if she looked at Yolanda she’d say yes even if she didn’t want to. Independence nudged her, come with me, it said too, pulling her in the other direction so much so that she felt split in two.
“Um,” she began, her eyes still fixed on Yolanda’s feet, encased in smooth black heels, the edges of the nylon no-show stockings cradling soft skin, “okay,” she said at last, and this time it didn’t feel like dismissal.
“Good,” Yolanda grinned, pulling her towards her car, “because I have a surprise for you,” she added, placing a heavy plastic bag in Trinity’s lap, the thank you graphic faded slightly, “this is the one you like, right?”
Rows of bright green stared back at her: Lucky Me! Pancit canton.
Something in her chest shifted, something old and familiar rising up before she could stop it. She ran through the memories: the Trinity from Palawan, the Trinity who was inseparable from Cecelia, the Trinity who wanted and the Trinity who had it all.
“Yeah,” Trinity said, softer than she meant to. Her fingers moved before she could think better of it, tangling themselves in Yolanda’s curls as she pulled her closer and kissed her.
It was too hot; she should have waited.
The warmth spread in an explosion across her tastebuds anyway, sudden and overwhelming as something that settled deep and certain in her chest. It wasn’t perfect, too much teeth and desperation, a few tears too, but it was hers, theirs, chosen in the moment.
Lucky, indeed.