Unbothered Until You Came

Dr. Brown Immanuel stepped into the hospital lobby, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the tile floor. The air inside felt sterile-crisp, calculated. Everything had a place, an order. It was the kind of world he thrived in. Clean. Efficient. Predictable. A world where the messy tangles of emotions had no room to exist.

He adjusted the cufflinks on his shirt, their shine reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. In his white coat, he was untouchable. People in the hallways parted as he passed. He didn't need to smile; his presence alone commanded respect.

"Morning, Dr. Immanuel," one of the nurses said as she stepped aside.

Brown nodded, his eyes scanning the patients in the waiting area, but his focus remained elsewhere. The hospital had been his home for over a decade. It was where he'd built his name, crafted his legacy. People talked about him in hushed tones-admired, respected, even envied. But they didn't know him.

To them, he was the miracle worker, the genius surgeon who made impossible saves. But under the layers of accolades and surgical masks, there was a man who had never allowed himself to be anything more than what his white coat demanded of him. Detached. Focused. Unmoved.

"Dr. Immanuel," a voice called from behind. Brown turned to see Dr. Marcus, a fellow surgeon, holding out a file. "There's an emergency in the ER. We need you to consult."

Brown glanced at the file but didn't make any move to take it. His hand remained at his side, as it always did in situations like this. "Tell them I'll be there in ten."

"Got it." Marcus nodded and hurried off.

Brown's phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. He pulled it out and saw a text from his sister, Rebecca: "Are you coming to Daniel's birthday this Saturday? Mum is expecting you to show up this time."

He rolled his eyes, typing back without a second thought: "I'll be there. I'll send a gift. No need to guilt-trip me."

He didn't mind family, but the constant expectations felt like a weight he couldn't shake. His life was about precision, not social gatherings. Love? That was something he didn't have time for-something his mother had learned to stop nagging him about years ago.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and headed toward the elevator.

The ER was chaotic, just as he'd expected. Nurses and doctors moved with the urgency of people who were used to saving lives in a matter of seconds. Brown's heart rate didn't pick up. He'd been here too many times to let the rush of adrenaline get to him. He was calm, collected-his world built on control.

"Dr. Immanuel!" A voice called from the corner. He turned to see Dr. Nicole, one of the ER physicians, waving him over.

"What's the situation?" Brown asked as he walked toward her, already pulling on his gloves.

"Gunshot wound to the chest. It's bad," Nicole explained, her eyes wide with urgency. "We need you to operate. You're the only one who can handle this."

Brown didn't flinch. His mind was already calculating, assessing, predicting. The patient's life was on the line, but it was just another puzzle for him to solve. No room for nerves. No room for hesitation.

"Alright," he said, nodding toward the gurney. "Let's get this done."

It was two hours later when Brown stepped out of the operating room, his surgical mask still in place as he scrubbed his hands. The adrenaline rush of the surgery had long since worn off, replaced by a familiar emptiness. The patient had survived-another success for his track record-but there was no sense of accomplishment. There never was.

He wasn't the kind of man who celebrated wins. The patient had made it through, and that was all that mattered.

As he turned the corner, his phone buzzed again. This time, the message was from a number he didn't recognize.

"Hello, Dr. Immanuel. I'm Helen Collins. I'm performing tonight at The Velvet Lounge. I know this may be unexpected, but I'd like you to attend."

Brown read the message twice. It wasn't the first time someone had asked him to come to one of these types of events-spoken word performances were a popular trend now. Still, the name "Helen Collins" didn't ring any bells. He wasn't interested in poetry or the arts; he was interested in saving lives and building his career.

Yet, something about the message tugged at him. It was a bold invitation. An invitation from someone who, like him, was unapologetically direct.

He hesitated for a moment before typing back, "I don't typically attend these kinds of events."

He put the phone away, but his mind couldn't shake the curiosity that had flared up. He'd seen plenty of women who tried to catch his attention, but this felt different. Helen Collins was different. Or at least, he thought she might be.

Later that night, after the chaos of the hospital had settled, Brown found himself standing outside The Velvet Lounge. The neon lights flickered softly, casting a purple glow on the sidewalk. Music could be heard faintly through the walls, a rhythm he hadn't realized he'd been craving.

He wasn't sure why he had come. Part of him didn't want to admit that he'd been intrigued by her message, but it was more than that. There was something about this Helen that had gotten under his skin.

When he entered, the place was dimly lit, intimate. Small tables were scattered around the room, and people whispered excitedly, the buzz of anticipation almost tangible. He glanced around, trying to make sense of the energy. Everything about this place was foreign to him.

A man in the corner was strumming a guitar. People were sipping on cocktails, chatting lightly. But then, the lights dimmed even further, and a hush fell over the crowd.

A woman appeared at the front of the stage. She was tall, with dark, curly hair cascading down her back. She wore a simple black dress, but the way she carried herself made the dress look like an intricate masterpiece. There was something commanding in the way she stood there, like she was waiting for the world to stop and listen.

Helen Collins.

She looked out over the crowd, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for something-or someone. Then, her voice broke through the silence. The words were slow, deliberate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife.

"Love is not a promise," she began, her voice smooth but powerful. "It's not a guarantee. It's a risk."

Brown's heart skipped. There was something about her presence-something that demanded attention. She spoke not with just her words but with every movement, every breath she took. It was as if the entire room had been waiting for this moment.

The room was still. Everyone was hanging on her every word. But for Brown, it felt like the world had paused entirely.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. But he didn't pull it out. He didn't care who it was. His eyes were fixed on Helen, and her words continued to fill the air, wrapping themselves around his heart.

"Risk is what we do when we open our hearts to love," she continued, her gaze locked somewhere near the back of the room. "And risk is exactly what we must take."

Brown's chest tightened. She wasn't just speaking to the room. She was speaking to him. The man who had never once let love into his world-who had spent his life avoiding the very thing she was talking about.

As the lights flickered slightly above them, Helen's eyes found his.

And for the first time in years, Brown felt something he couldn't explain.