The Scrubs Weren’t a Job

For months, I was falling for someone I’d never actually met—and I didn’t realize

how wrong I was until one sentence made my stomach drop. He lived in my apartment

building. Quiet. Polite. Always in scrubs, always exhausted,

always leaving late at night. We’d share elevator rides in silence, trade small smiles,

nothing more. I filled in the blanks myself—long shifts, stressful job,

probably a good guy. I let the mystery make him perfect. One night,

the elevator stalled between floors. Just long enough to force conversation. I joked about how

brutal his work hours must be. He went still. Then he said, very carefully,