Violet

A/N: just as a reminder, these are not a singular cohesive story, more like a collection of stories connected lightly by details.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

The first time Trinity notices it, it starts with something so small that it’s almost nothing.

Trinity has something going on in the kitchen that smells warm and buttery, maybe even a little sweet. It drifts down the short hallway toward the bedroom while you’re halfway through pulling your scrub top over your head. 

You smooth the shirt down automatically, tugging It straight where it catches at your waist.

The apartment is quiet except for the sound of dishes clattering together and the drone of the coffee maker. 

You step in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall in Trinity’s bedroom, giving yourself a quick once-over. Your scrubs fit fine. They always do.

Still, you turn to the side, tugging at the edge again. It pulls a little tighter across your stomach than you want it to. You suck in a little, hold it for a second, then let it out again with a quiet breath.

“Breakfast is ready.”

You jump at the sound of Trinity’s voice right behind you and turn to find her leaning against the door frame, watching you. She’s already dressed, and the idea of her cooking in her scrubs would make you giggle if you weren’t busy flushing just a little at being caught.

You force a smile, reaching for your badge on the dresser. “You’re awfully quiet for someone cooking in the kitchen.”

“You’re awfully distracted for someone getting dressed,” she shoots back lightly. 

You laugh and shimmy past her into the hallway. She follows you out of the bedroom and by the time you fish a cup out of the cabinet, she’s already back in front of the stove. 

There are two plates on the counter, waiting for you. Eggs and toast, with what smells like cinnamon.

Trinity nudges one of the plates towards you with the tips of her fingers. “Eat.”

You shake your head lightly, holding up the mug. “Just coffee for me this morning.”

She pauses just as the forkful of eggs reaches her mouth.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, following it up with a quick sip of your coffee. “I don’t really get too hungry in the mornings.”

Trinity sighs and pulls your plate toward herself.

“Suit yourself.”

You lean back against the counter while she eats, content in the silence and grateful for the heat put out by your coffee cup.

She finishes quickly and you dump the rest of your coffee into a travel mug, tucking it into the netted cupholder on the side of your backpack. 

“C’mon, Dr. Santos,” you say with a laugh. “If we’re late, I’m blaming your gourmet breakfast.”

“Bold move,” Trinity says, grabbing her keys. “Blaming your resident.”

As the two of you move toward the front door, she glances back toward the kitchen at the untouched plate still sitting on the counter. Then she flips the lights off and follows you out. 

She doesn’t say anything about your untouched plate that morning, she just notices it.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

The second time Trinity notices it is in the break room. 

Your shift has been busy enough that the morning has flown by in a blur of patient consults and lab runs. By the time things finally slow for more than two minutes, you’re halfway down the hall with a stack of paper charts in your hand when Trinity’s hand catches the back of your scrub sleeve.

“Come on.”

You glance over your shoulder at her. “What?”

“Break room.”

“I have charts -”

“Wrong, you have donuts.”

That’s enough to make you pause. 

“Someone brought donuts?”

Trinity scoffs softly, and it’s laced with a laugh. “You think I’d be dragging you off schedule for anything less?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead she just steers you down the hall with a firm hand on your arm, the two of you giggling the whole way.

The break room door is propped open when you get there. Inside, the table in the middle of the room with an unmistakable large pink box.

Half the staff in the department seems to have the same idea.

Dana is leaning against the counter with a coffee, in mid-conversation with one of the nurses, and someone from radiology is already reaching for the last sprinkled chocolate.

“See?” Trinity mutters, nodding toward the box. “Savages.”

That makes you laugh.

Trinity steps forward and flips the lid open the rest of the way, scanning the remaining options with scrutiny. “Alright,” he says, pointing. “You want the maple bar or the chocolate glaze before someone else grabs them?”

You lean against the table instead, shaking your head lightly.

“I’m good.”

Trinity glances up from the donuts to you, confused. “You’re good?”

“Yeah,” you say easily. “I’m not really hungry. I had a big breakfast.”

For just a moment, Trinity doesn’t move. She just stares at you. Not in a way that draws attention from anyone else in the room, but long enough to scan your face, trying to understand the lie. Because she remembers the untouched plate sitting on the counter and the way you walked out the door with nothing but coffee in your hand. Coffee she happens to know is still sitting in the cupholder of your backpack right now.

Crossing the room, Dana is already reaching into the box and snatching that maple bar. 

“Big breakfast?” she repeats approvingly. “Look at you, being responsible.”

You shrug one shoulder with a faux-humble smile.

“Trying something new.”

Trinity sucks her teeth quietly, reaching into the box and grabbing the chocolate glaze.

“Your loss,” she says.

You lift a hand in lazy surrender as you back into the hallway again. 

“Enjoy.”

By the time Trinity looks up again, you’re already halfway down the hall toward the workstations with those paper charts in hand.

Dana glances toward the empty doorway, then back at Trinity.

“You letting your med student skip donuts?” she asks.

Trinity chews thoughtfully, her eyes drifting after you.

“For now.”

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

The third time Trinity notices isn’t just one instance.

It’s a pattern, the kind that only becomes obvious after a while when you’re really looking for something.

A week has passed, maybe two.

It’s been long enough for the emergency department to cycle through it’s usual rhythm: new patients, new shifts, but somehow always the same old Myrna. Long enough that Trinity almost convinces herself that the first two times didn’t mean anything at all.

People skip meals all the time in this job, there just isn’t enough time to sit down and eat. Coffee and adrenaline get most doctors through their shifts just fine.

But still, she notices things.

Lunch gets dropped off for the department and you suddenly remember three different things that need to be done right that minute.

A nurse offering you a sandwich and you waving it off with an easy smile and a claim that you ate earlier.

The same granola bar sitting in the pocket of your scrub shirt for three separate shifts.

Trinity tells herself it doesn’t mean anything because she knows better than to jump to conclusions. She’s seen what happens when doctors do that. Hell, she’s done it herself.

Her mind drifts back to the bulimic patient she nearly missed a while back. Mel practically had to spoon-feed her the diagnosis before Trinity finally put the pieces together because she’d been so focused on other things.

And for weeks afterward, Trinity had started seeing eating disorders everywhere. Every patient who said they weren’t hungry, every athlete who came in with a stomachache. It had been a while before she trusted her instincts again.

And then, of course, there’s the part she doesn’t talk about. 

Years of her own early mornings, weigh-ins with coaches who talked about food like it was a negotiation instead of just basic nutrition.

It leaves a mark.

Enough that Trinity is aware of how easy it is to see patterns that aren’t really there.

Projection, that’s the word for it. Something med students love to throw around during their psych rotations.

So she tells herself that’s what this is. Projection. You’re a med student on an emergency medicine rotation. You’re busy. You’re stressed. You forget to eat sometimes. That’s all.

It has to be.

But every time she notices and does her best to dismiss it, the same quiet thought knocks at the back door of her mind, her instincts whispering to her over and over:

Something isn’t right.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

The fourth time Trinity notices, she knows she isn’t imagining it anymore.

You’d slept over the night before, which is becoming more and more common nowadays. 

She had made breakfast again that morning and you hadn’t even looked at it. You’d just thanked her, taken another sip of your coffee, and asked if she was ready to head in once she was done. 

She’d let it go in the moment, but by the time the two of you walk into the emergency department together, she already knows for certain that you haven’t eaten today.

This shift is busy from the start.

A steady stream of patients, nothing too dramatic but enough to keep everyone moving all the time. By mid-afternoon, Trinity is standing at the foot of a patient bed while you prepare a blood draw for a patient who looks mildly terrified of needles. 

“I’ll be real quick,” you reassure the patient gently, tying the tourniquet. Your voice is calm and reassuring, the kind of bedside manner Trinity’s come to expect from you.

She watches you while you clean the site, unwrap the butterfly needle, and line everything up. Your technique is good. Steady.

At first.

Then your hand trembles.

It’s subtle, just a small shake of your fingers as you position the needle. Most people in the room probably wouldn’t notice, the patient certainly (and thankfully) hasn’t.

But Trinity does. Especially as she watches the tremor run through your hand again. 

You pause, adjusting your grip on the needle, trying to steady it.

The patient shifts nervously on the bed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Just -”

Your hand shakes again, this time harder to hide. You try your best to position the needle, but your fingers don’t cooperate. For a moment, you stare at your own hand, like you’re willing it to stop. But it doesn’t.

Your jaw tightens in frustration and you step back. 

“Dr. Santos,” you say, keeping your voice even as you hold the butterfly needle out to her. “Would you mind taking this one?”

Trinity steps forward without hesitating. “Of course,” she says easily, doing her best not to alarm your already-alarmed patient.

She takes the needle from you and finishes the blood draw. It takes less than a minute.

“See?” she tells the patient lightly. “Not so bad.”

They laugh nervously, already relaxing.

As Trinity initials the vial, she chances a glance up at you. You’re standing a step back from the foot of the bed, your hands empty, and she notices the way you’ve curled your fingers into your palms like you’re trying to hide the shaking.

She says nothing. Not here, in front of a patient, that would be unprofessional. But she does feel a level of certainty settle into place anyway, because she knows you didn’t eat this morning, and she remembers the granola bar that went uneaten and the excuses, and now she’s seen your hands shake.

This time, she doesn’t tell herself she’s imagining things. This time, she knows. 

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

You step inside Trinity’s apartment later that same night, dropping your bag by the door.

You’re so tired that your legs feel heavy and your head a little fuzzy. No food all day and a coffee-only breakfast…and every movement of your body has felt like a treadmill you couldn’t step off.

You pause for just a second, catching your reflection in the mirror in the entryway of her apartment.

It’s a quick, almost reflexive look. Your shoulders slump as you take in the lines of your body and the way your scrubs sit.

Trinity’s there before you even realize it. She’s leaning casually against the wall behind you with her arms crossed, looking mostly calm but entirely focused. 

“Look at me,” she says quietly.

You freeze at her tone. The glance at the mirror turns into a stiff shake of your head.

“I said, look at me,” she repeats, leaving no room to argue.

Finally you turn and your eyes lift, meeting hers. You look exhausted, wary, and maybe even a little ashamed.

“You haven’t eaten today,” she says, her gaze hard on you.

“I had a busy morning,” you mumble. “Plus, I had coffee for breakfast, it’s fine.”

Trinity steps closer to you, her jaw set in a way that tells you she’s grinding her teeth. Her expression is otherwise soft, but her voice is tight, like she’s holding herself in check. 

“This is happening every day. You don’t eat breakfast, or lunch, and that same granola bar is still sitting in your pocket from like a week ago. You’re shaking so much you can’t even hold a needle without me stepping in.”

You look down at your hands. “I’m fine,” you mutter.

“I don’t think you are,” Trinity says. “I want to know why, tell me why so I can help.”

Your chest tightens. Because saying it feels like giving a piece of yourself you aren’t ready to give yet. You shake your head. 

“You can tell me,” she says softly, crossing the small space between you to put her hands on your arms. “I need to know, you know I’m not going to judge you.”

You take a shaky breath. “Because I…I just feel like - like I can’t control anything. Patients, outcomes, my schedule…everything is so chaotic, all the time. You…I don’t even know -” you falter, but you push through. “Even you - us. I don’t even know what this is, or where I stand. And I can’t control any of that. But this…this I can control.”

Silence falls as Trinity studies your face, taking in your words. 

“Starving yourself isn’t going to make everything else easier,” she says quietly. “It’s only going to add another problem to your list.”

You swallow and your voice cracks a little. “I just feel so out of control, and I - I don’t know how to stop.”

Trinity bends so that she can look up at you, to see your face. “Then let me help you,” she says firmly. “Not because you can’t do it yourself. You don’t have to do it yourself, I’m here for you.”

You finally let yourself breath, let her presence anchor you. You open your eyes to look at her. 

“And for what it’s worth,” she adds softly, “you don’t have to be perfect. You’re already enough.” She steps closer and wraps you in a firm, steady hug. One hand rests at the small of your back, the other on your shoulder as she holds you tightly. 

You lean into her, sighing with both relief and exhaustion. The weight of being seen is heavy, but it feels good.

When you pull back enough to breathe, Trinity tilts her head toward the kitchen. 

“Go sit,” she says. “I’ll make you something.”

You sink into the edge of the couch, still shaky, and she moves to the kitchen without a word. In minutes, she’s back with a small plate: half a banana, a few crackers, and a glass of water. Nothing fancy or overwhelming. Like she’s done this before.

“Start with this,” she says, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of you. “No pressure. Just eat something.”

You pick at the banana, hesitating a second before taking a bite. Trinity sits next to you on the couch, watching. Trying not to hover, but supporting. She doesn’t say anything else.

Nothing has really changed, at least not right this very minute. It’s not a solution, this is something that can’t be fixed in this moment. But it’s a start.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 (you are here!)

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡