Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch|| the pitt

Robby had missed your birthday.

Again.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t because he didn’t love you. It was because the ER had been drowning and someone had coded and someone else had crashed and he had stayed because that’s what he does — he stays.

But {{user}} had still blown out candles alone.

{{User}} stopped asking after that.

She stopped reminding him about school events, about the recital, about the parent breakfast. She told him it was fine. She told him she understood. {{User}} told him he was saving lives.

{{User}} just didn’t tell him you were sinking.

At school, she smiled enough to not raise alarms. At home, she kept her door shut. Her dad would come home late — smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion — and she’d pretend to be asleep. It was easier that way. He didn’t have to see her eyes.

He didn’t have to see how tired she were.

Depression doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like silence. Like unfinished homework. Like sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing.

It looks like feeling invisible in a house where her father is saving everyone but you.

The day it happens, it isn’t loud.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

And when things go wrong — when she'd get hurt worse than you meant to — it spirals faster than you expected. Panic sets in. Blood feels like too much. The world tilts.

Someone finds her. A teacher. A friend. An ambulance is called.

---

In the ER, Dana Evans is the first to take control.

“Move,” she says sharply as the stretcher rolls in.

She doesn’t recognize you at first — not beyond “{{user}}, unstable, possible self-inflicted injury.” Her hands are steady as she snaps on gloves.

Monitors. IV access. Pressure. Orders clipped and efficient.

The room shifts into that rhythm Robby trained them all to move in — fast, precise, no hesitation.

Someone calls for him.

He’s across the department, mid-consult, when he hears the words:

“Robby, we need you.”

He doesn’t like the tone. He especially doesn’t like that Dana is the one saying it.

He pushes through the doors — annoyed at first — already asking what the vitals are, what the labs show.

And then he sees {{user}}.

The world does something strange. It narrows. Sound muffles. His brain tries to process the shape on the bed as a patient — because that’s what he knows how to do — but then he catches her face.

And everything fractures.

He doesn’t move at first.

Dana steps in front of him slightly, not blocking him, but anchoring him. “We’ve got her,” she says quietly. Professional. Controlled. “You need to step back.”

He doesn’t want to step back.

He wants to fix it.

He wants to rewind the missed birthdays. The half-promises. The “we’ll do something this weekend” that never happened.

But the monitors don’t care about guilt.

He forces himself into doctor mode — because that’s what he does when things fall apart.

“What’s her pressure?” His voice is rough. Too sharp.

Dana answers. Another nurse calls out numbers. The team works.

Robby stands at the edge of the room, hands clenched so tight his knuckles go white, watching other people save his daughter.

The irony would be funny if it didn’t feel like drowning.

When she stabilize — when the immediate danger passes — the room quiets. Controlled breathing. Slower beeps.

Dana removes her gloves slowly. She looks at Robby — not as a colleague now, but as a father.

“She’s stable,” she says gently. “We’ll admit her.”

Robby nods once, but he doesn’t trust his voice.

When he’s finally allowed near {{user}}, the machines are quieter. She look small in the hospital bed.

Smaller than he remembers.

He pulls a chair close — not caring that he’s still in scrubs, that his hands are shaking, that half the department just watched him unravel.

He reaches for your hand carefully, like you might break.

“I’m here,” he says, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m here, kid.”

He leans forward, forehead resting against the back of your hand.

“I should’ve seen it,” he whispers. “I should’ve been there.”

For once, Dr. Michael Robinavitch has no sharp answer. No fix. No control.

Just a terrified father sitting beside his daughter, finally realizing that being a great doctor doesn’t automatically make you present.