Monday came in a blur of clinical rounds and caffeine. My mornings had become a blend of speed-walking through hospital corridors, balancing patient charts, and resisting the urge to scream into my coffee cup. But beneath all the chaos, there was a rhythm—one I was slowly mastering.
James and I kept things professional, but something lingered beneath our conversations now. A kind of tension that wasn't heavy, just… buzzing. And though we hadn't spoken about that moment at the health fair, I knew we both remembered it.
That evening, after rounds, I found myself heading to the rooftop garden of the hospital—a quiet little corner where overworked interns went to breathe again. I was surprised to find James already there, legs crossed, sipping from a water bottle and staring at the city skyline like it held all the answers.
He looked over and smiled when he saw me.
"You've discovered my hiding spot," he said.
"I thought it was mine."
We sat side by side in comfortable silence for a few moments. The air was cool, the city lights flickered in the distance, and for once, neither of us had a chart in hand.
"I've been thinking," he said suddenly, voice low.
"Dangerous," I teased, trying to keep it light.
He smiled. "Do you ever feel like we're becoming the people we always wanted to be… but we don't really know what to do with it?"
That caught me off guard.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "It's weird, isn't it? You spend your whole life wishing you were seen, valued, confident… and when it finally happens, part of you still expects it to disappear."
He nodded. "Like we're just faking it until someone calls us out."
"But no one is calling," I added softly. "They're just watching us rise."
The silence returned, but it was different now. Charged. James looked at me, really looked, and for a moment, I felt like I wasn't Charlotte the intern or Charlotte the overachiever—I was just… me. And he saw that.
Then his phone buzzed, snapping the moment in two.
He stood up, reading the message. "I should head back. But thanks for… this."
"Anytime," I replied, my voice almost a whisper.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Not because of stress or exams, but because of everything that wasn't said. The space between words. The glances held too long. The way his shoulder brushed mine and lingered for a beat longer than necessary.
Sophie called me the next morning, her face filling my screen in a whirlwind of excitement.
"Charlotte!" she beamed. "I got the final confirmation. I start the New York program next month!"
I squealed so loudly the nurses gave me looks.
"I'm so proud of you, Soph!"
"I'm proud of us," she corrected. "Do you realize how far we've come?"
I did. Every day.
We talked for almost an hour—about her program, about me and James (which she insisted was obviously heading toward something romantic), and about how we were both trying to balance ambition with heart.
Later that evening, I sat down with my journal—a habit I'd picked up again. And I wrote one sentence:
"Becoming unforgettable isn't about being the loudest person in the room… it's about being the one who quietly refuses to disappear."
I didn't know exactly what was next for me and James.
But I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't invisible anymore.
And I never would be again.