Week two at St. Grace Memorial felt like juggling scalpels while blindfolded. I barely had time to breathe, let alone check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I lived in scrubs, ate granola bars in supply closets, and dreamed of blood test panels.
But strangely… I loved it.
I was starting to find a rhythm, one beep at a time. I didn't faint at the sight of surgery anymore (though I still gagged at wound debridement). I memorized the names of nurses, and they started calling me "Doc Char."
It was a small win, but a meaningful one.
On Tuesday, during a break between rounds, I met Milo—a pediatric intern with messy hair, quirky glasses, and the world's worst handwriting.
"I'm Milo. You're Charlotte Samson, right? I heard about your high GPA and the fact you didn't cry during your first surgery."
"I cried. Just… internally."
He laughed. It was easy, warm laughter. We walked to the cafeteria together, exchanging jokes about hospital food and sharing our dreams. He wanted to start a mobile clinic one day.
"You seem like the type who used to be quiet," he said, stirring his coffee.
"I was invisible."
"Not anymore," he replied. "Not even close."
Later that week, Dr. Holloway called on me during a morning conference.
"Ms. Samson," she said, all sharp syllables, "diagnose the case."
Everyone turned. It was one of those moments—the kind that separates observers from contenders.
I steadied my breath and answered clearly, breaking down symptoms, labs, and differential diagnosis.
Dr. Holloway raised an eyebrow. "Correct. Concise. You may assist in the procedure."
Inside, I was screaming.
Outside, I nodded calmly and whispered a thank-you.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was rising.
That night, I video-called Sophie. She looked radiant—even in a hoodie with noodles in her hair.
"Guess what?" she said. "The studio in Brooklyn loved my project. I might get a design internship."
"Sophie, that's huge!"
"I know! But also… I miss our daily chaos. Coffee runs. Midnight ramen. You, James, and me—our weird little trio."
I paused. "We still have it."
"Yeah… but you two talk a lot now. I see the way you light up."
I blushed.
James, on the other hand, had been quieter lately. His messages were more thoughtful, slower. As if something was weighing on him—but he wasn't ready to talk yet.
On Friday night, just before I clocked out, Milo caught up to me in the hallway.
"Hey," he said, "you're kinda amazing, you know?"
I laughed. "You're just tired."
"I mean it. I thought you should hear it out loud."
I smiled. "Thanks, Milo. That… means more than you know."
As I walked back to my apartment that night, I realized something strange. My world was expanding again. New people. New emotions. New possibilities.
But one thing hadn't changed—I still thought of James.
Even if we hadn't defined what we were yet.
I used to live in the shadows of other people's stories.
Now I was the one turning the pages.
And maybe, just maybe, writing a whole new chapter of my own.