The devastated sobs follow him out of the room. It's all he can hear as he carefully closes the door behind him and begins to cross the stairwell.
He still feels her trembling hand as it reached out and grabbed his for comfort. It was cold, fingers biting into his skin, like if she held on tightly enough, it wouldn't hurt so much. It doesn't matter how many times he's sat in that room with people receiving the worst news of their lives; it never gets easier. The minute it does is when he'll hand in his resignation and never set foot inside the hospital again.
He's lost count of the number of times he's told relatives that they did everything they could. It's been a while since he felt like he didn't mean it. Doesn't matter what anyone else says, Leah's life was in his hands, and maybe, maybe, on another day, when Adamson wasn't on his mind, when Langdon hadn't shown his true colours, he might have been able to save her.
He'll never know, and he'll have to live with that what if for the rest of his life.
Jack would argue with him on that, of course, but Leah wasn't his patient.
It guts him that her parents thank him. It tears him up inside. They've lost their only child, and they fucking thank him.
All he does is nod, unable to accept the gratitude, not when he doesn't deserve it. Not when they don't know that she went in his place. Not when he's unable to give them anything but hollow words.
He's sorry.
They did everything they could.
Outside, with her cries ringing in his ears and Leah's blood on his hands, he stares through the double doors into the ED. It's easy to think the world stops completely while you're in that small, windowless room, but it doesn't. The world keeps on turning, Leah has been dead for just a little longer, and everyone carries on.
There's no time to stop in the ED, not for a single second. There's always another patient, always an alarm going off, an IV bag to switch, a chart to fill, a waiting room of impatient people to see. It never fucking stops.
He just wants it to stop, for just a moment.
Staring at the people rushing about, unaware of him watching them, he wonders, fleetingly, if they would even notice if he disappeared completely. If he faded away into nothing. Deep down, he knows the truth. Not only is he easily replaceable, Gloria certainly reminds him of that routinely, but there's probably someone younger, smarter, and less exhausted ready to take his spot.
His face creases, his feet frozen to the spot. The thought of stepping through those doors feels like an impossible task. He can't pretend to be fine anymore. He has no more left to give. There's a sudden tightness in his chest, a constriction that forces air from his lungs and makes his head swim. Instead of stepping through those doors like he should, he turns his back on them.
The stairs are right there, welcoming him up and away from it all. His breath shudders as he climbs the steps, the sound filling the stairwell and roaring in his ears. Each step feels monumental. His feet ache from being on them for nearly fifteen hours straight, and his knees protest as he bears all his weight down on them. But he keeps going.
He should feel lighter, the further away he gets from the ED, but he can't escape his memories. Leah stays with him with every floor he passes. He wonders what she sounded like when she laughed, what expression crossed her face when Jake complimented her. He wonders if she danced before she died.
Jake will move on. He doesn't see it just yet, the grief too raw, the anger too all-encompassing, but there will come a time when he doesn't think about her at all. There will be someone new in his life, a new love that will not only fill the space left by Leah, but eclipse it.