Chapter 33: You Deleted Me Fifty breaths. That’s all I have left. I stand there, chest tight, throat dry, staring at Mira like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling through the floor. The room doesn’t move. The air doesn’t shift. Nothing changes except the number on my chest. Fifty. Then forty-nine. Then—nothing. It stops. Just like that. Frozen. Like time itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to say something. I say it. “What did I erase?” The words come out flat. Not loud. Not quiet. Just there. Like I’m stating a fact I already know but refuse to believe. I don’t expect an answer. I don’t expect anything. I just need to hear the question out loud. I need to force the room to react. I need to force her to react. She doesn’t move. Not at first. Then—movement. Not from her. Not from the walls. Not from the floor or the ceiling. From the air. Papers. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Maybe more. They appear midair like they’ve always been there, suspended in perfect rows, perfectly aligned, perfectly still. Each one is a surgical log. Each one has my signature at the bottom. Each one has her patient ID stamped in red at the top right corner. Mira. Not Lena. Mira. I didn’t know that until now. I step closer. Not toward her. Toward the papers. I reach out. My fingers brush the edge of the first one. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t flutter. It doesn’t feel like paper. It feels like glass. Cold. Hard. Unyielding. I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned. I look at her. She’s still sitting on the table. Still watching me. Still waiting. Her expression hasn’t changed. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Like none of this surprises her. Like she’s seen it all before. Like she’s been here, in this exact moment, a hundred times. She stands. Slowly. Deliberately. Like every movement is calculated. Like she’s giving me time to process. Like she’s giving me time to run. I don’t run. She steps down from the table. Bare feet on the cold floor. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shiver. Doesn’t react at all. She walks toward me. One step. Two. Three. I don’t move. I don’t back away. I don’t reach for her. I just stand there, watching her come closer, watching the papers hover between us like a wall made of my own failures. She stops in front of me. Close enough that I can see the faint lines around her eyes. Close enough that I can see the way her lips part slightly when she breathes. Close enough that I can smell the sterile wipe still clinging to her skin. She raises her hand. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… there. Her palm faces me. She doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t push me. Doesn’t slap me. She just holds it there, hovering over my chest, right above the counter. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. The counter doesn’t move either. It’s still frozen at forty-nine. Her hand lowers. Slowly. Gently. She places it flat against my chest. Right over the counter. I feel the pressure. Not heavy. Not light. Just… present. Like she’s anchoring me to this moment. Like she’s reminding me that I’m still here. Still alive. Still counting. The counter doesn’t change. It doesn’t tick. It doesn’t glow. It doesn’t do anything. It just sits there. Frozen. Like it’s waiting for her to say something. She leans in. Close enough that her breath brushes my ear. Her voice is quiet. Not a whisper. Not a murmur. Just… small. Like she’s speaking to herself. Like she’s remembering something she hasn’t said out loud in a long time. “You didn’t just forget me.” She pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the weight of what’s coming. “You deleted me.”