On paper, it looked inconsistent.
In real life, it was survival.
Every exam he passed felt like ours. Every rotation he survived felt like proof that I had not burned my own future down for nothing. I told myself I would go back one day. I even kept my textbooks in storage for the first two years because getting rid of them felt too final.
Eventually, I packed them into a closet.
Then I stopped opening the closet.
By the time graduation came, I had built entire private rituals around that word.
When Nathan matched into a strong residency program in internal medicine, he picked me up in our kitchen and spun me around until I hit his shoulder and laughed.
"We did it," he said.
"You did it."
He smiled into my shoulder. "No. We did."
By the time graduation came, I had built entire private rituals around that word.
But in the last month before graduation, Nathan changed.
We.
We made it.
We survived.
We were finally at the edge of the life I had been postponing for years.
But in the last month before graduation, Nathan changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I certainly did.
Once, I saw a folder in his bag with my name printed on a tab.
He started taking calls outside.
He shut his laptop when I walked into the room.
Once, I saw a folder in his bag with my name printed on a tab.
"What's that?" I asked.
He zipped the bag too quickly.
"Just paperwork," he said. "Nothing for you to worry about."
His mother wouldn't meet my eyes.
