The airport smelled like too many things at once—coffee, jet fuel, and goodbye.
Sophie stood in front of the gate with her suitcase at her side and her passport peeking out of her coat pocket. Her eyes darted from the flight board to me, then back again, as if delaying what we both knew was about to happen.
"You're really leaving," I said, my voice already shaky.
"Only physically," she replied, flashing a small, brave smile. "Emotionally, I'm practically stitched to your side. You're stuck with me, Charlotte Samson."
I tried to smile back, but it wobbled. My heart was a confused mess of pride, joy, and quiet ache.
"I don't know what I would've done without you," I whispered.
"Same," she said. "But now you have James."
I glanced behind me, where James stood patiently with his hands in his pockets, giving us space. His smile was soft and warm, the kind that made my knees wobble and my heart do gymnastics.
Sophie followed my gaze, then leaned close to me.
"Be happy, okay? You deserve it. Don't overthink it. Don't sabotage it. And remember: if he breaks your heart, I'll come back and shave his eyebrows in his sleep."
I laughed through my tears. We hugged like we were holding on to the last piece of childhood—and maybe we were.
"I'll visit," I promised.
"You better. You're my maid of honor someday, you know."
"Only if you're mine."
"Deal."
They called her flight, and after one last smile, one last wave, Sophie turned and disappeared into the crowd. Just like that, my college roommate, best friend, and partner-in-chaos was off to New York to chase her dreams.
The transition from friends to something more with James wasn't dramatic. There were no fireworks, no whirlwind declarations. It was quiet and steady—exactly what I needed.
We started small. Walks after dinner. Coffee dates. Late-night calls that bled into sleep.
One day, he came to my apartment with takeout and simply said, "I want to do this properly, Charlotte. Not as your friend. As someone who's been in love with you longer than I realized."
I was stunned. I didn't cry this time. I just smiled, kissed him, and told him, "It's about time."
Dating James was nothing like the fantasy I'd built in high school. It was better.
He saw me—really saw me. Not the invisible girl with glasses, not the perfectionist with a GPA to defend—but me. Messy. Flawed. Brilliant. Emotional. And completely unsure of what the future held.
After graduation, I started my internship at UCLA Medical Hospital—yes, my mother's hospital. It was intense and humbling, but for once, I felt like I was carving my own path, not walking hers.
Mom and I talked more now. Not like doctor to future doctor, but like mother and daughter. She brought me lunch sometimes. Once, she even called me "my little miracle."
Dad—surprisingly—showed up too. He didn't hover, but he was proud. He sent me flowers after my first successful case rotation. The note read:
"To the daughter who never stopped proving us wrong—in the best way."
One night, James and I sat on a bench outside the hospital after one of my longest days. He handed me a drink and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"You've changed so much," he said.
"Hopefully for the better."
"No," he grinned. "For the realer. That's even better."
We sat in silence for a while, watching the city glow.
"I used to think being invisible was a curse," I said softly. "But now I know—it was just my cocoon. And this?" I turned to him with a smile. "This is me flying."
He kissed my hand. Not rushed. Not flashy.
Just honest.