Mornings came fast in the city, especially when you were chasing dreams in scrubs and sneakers. I had started getting used to waking before the sun. The air always felt different—quieter, filled with the kind of promise that only came with starting over. I wasn't the same girl who walked the halls of Lincoln High School unnoticed. I was Dr. Charlotte Samson-in-progress, trying to matter in a place where no one had time to slow down.
Despite the pressure, I found a certain comfort in the chaos. My routine had become my refuge: early morning coffee, patient rounds, assisting in minor procedures, quick lunch in the courtyard, and long evenings buried in case files and medical journals. There was a rhythm to it, a kind of music only I could hear.
But even with the fullness of each day, there were… silences. The kind that settled deep in the chest when your thoughts caught up with you.
James and I hadn't spoken much since Sophie left for New York to begin her internship. Her absence felt bigger than expected. It was like one leg of our three-legged table had suddenly vanished. She still called, sent photos of rooftop views, and texted good luck before big presentations. But I missed the physical warmth of her—her energy, her voice, her certainty that I could do anything.
James had grown more distant too, which felt strange after all the moments we'd shared. Sometimes he messaged a meme or checked in with a "You good?" But it lacked the spark we used to have. The long walks after class, the shared playlists, the teasing looks across the cafeteria—they had been replaced by silence. A silence that felt like it was growing louder by the day.
One Thursday evening, I decided to take a different route home. My legs wandered into a small bookstore I used to visit back in high school. The shelves were dustier now, the lighting dimmer, but it still smelled of old pages and possibility. I browsed the familiar aisles, remembering how I used to lose myself in fantasy worlds when my own felt too heavy to carry.
That's when I saw him.
James.
He was sitting in the back corner, legs stretched out, a worn paperback in hand. For a second, I thought about walking past. About pretending I didn't see him. But he looked up, and our eyes locked.
He smiled, just a little. "Fancy seeing you here."
I walked over slowly, each step hesitant. "Didn't think you were the bookstore type."
"I am… when I'm hiding."
"From what?"
He shut the book. "Everything."
We sat in a quiet corner, surrounded by forgotten classics and soft jazz playing from an old speaker. There was a kind of comfort in the silence this time—an understanding that neither of us had the right words yet, but we were both still here.
"I'm sorry," James said suddenly. "For being weird lately."
I looked at him. "You have been distant."
"I know. I guess I've been trying to figure out who I am without all the expectations. My dad's pressure. The 'golden boy' thing. It's exhausting."
"I get it," I said softly. "I feel that way too sometimes. Like everyone sees the version of me that's perfectly polished and ambitious. But no one sees the girl who still cries when things feel too big."
"I see her," he said, and this time, he didn't look away.
The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard. And for the first time in weeks, I felt something unspoken ease between us.
We talked until the bookstore closed—about life, mistakes, fears, and even favorite childhood cartoons. It wasn't a romantic moment. It wasn't fireworks. But it was real. And maybe that was better.
As we walked out, James turned to me and said, "Let's not disappear again, okay?"
I nodded. "Okay."
In that moment, it didn't matter that we didn't define what we were. It didn't matter that I still had feelings for him that I wasn't ready to say out loud. What mattered was that he was still in my story—and that I wasn't invisible to him anymore.
And for now… that was enough.