STEPHANIE
...

The clinic is way too quiet, and not in the peaceful, productive way it usually is. It’s the kind of quiet where every sound feels like a shout. The click of my pen as I jot down notes on a patient’s chart, the shuffle of files, even the slight creak of my chair as I adjust — it all feels too loud, too noticeable.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Four more hours until my shift ends.

Internship is exhausting. It’s not just the physical work of being on my feet all day or managing the stream of patients needing everything from basic mobility assessments to detailed rehabilitation plans.

It’s the mental drain of having to constantly prove myself, to double-check every move I make, knowing my supervisor’s watchful eyes are always nearby. And on top of all that, there are still exams to prepare for.

I’ve barely slept in the past week. My brain is fried from cramming anatomy diagrams and physiology equations into whatever sliver of free time I have.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been dodging my professor’s emails about the case study I haven’t turned in yet. Some days, it feels like I’m holding everything together with duct tape.

I tap my pen against the desk in the tiny back office, my notes spread out in front of me in a disorganized mess. The patient I’m charting for is coming in for a post-op evaluation in twenty minutes, and I still need to finalize their progress report.

My laptop screen glares back at me, the cursor blinking mockingly in an empty file titled "PT Weekly Log."

This isn’t working.

I slam the laptop shut and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer me some cosmic wisdom. It doesn’t, obviously, but at least it’s not judging me for being completely burned out.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it like a lifeline.

Jeremiah: Mel says hi.

Jeremiah: She’s totally not moping without you, btw.

I smile despite myself, shaking my head.

Me: Tell her to stop being dramatic. I’ll see her soon.

The reply comes instantly.

Jeremiah: Dramatic? That’s her default setting.

I laugh softly, earning a curious glance from the receptionist walking by. I wave it off and tuck my phone back into my pocket.

I should focus. I need to focus. But my mind keeps drifting back to Melody. Her face makes my chest feel tight in a way I don’t understand.

I force myself to open the laptop again, diving into the patient’s chart. For the next hour, I manage to keep my head down and work through progress notes, planning out exercises for next week. But eventually, my brain starts to fog over, and I know I need a break.

After my last patient, I grab my bag and head to the breakroom. I pour myself a cup of coffee from the nearly empty pot and sink into one of the chairs by the window.

My phone buzzes again, and this time it’s Melody.
She finally put my number in her phone? That's progress right?

Melody: How’s the genius doing?

I grin and type back.

Me: Exhausted. My brain is melting. What about you?

Melody: Bored. Jeremiah’s annoying. Come rescue me.

I laugh softly, even though I know I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t want to see her so badly.

Me: Can’t. Midterms. You’ll survive.

Melody: Doubt it.

She sends a dramatic skull emoji, and I roll my eyes.

Me: Stop being such a baby.

Her response doesn’t come right away, and I tell myself not to check my phone again. But I do, of course. I always do.

When the text finally comes, it’s simple.

Melody: Good luck. Don’t forget to eat.

It’s such a small thing, but it makes my chest feel warm.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of paperwork and patient consultations. By the time I finally leave the clinic, the sun is already setting.

When I get back to the apartment, I collapse onto the couch, kicking off my shoes. My muscles ache from standing all day, and my head is pounding from a combination of stress and too much caffeine.

I grab my phone and open my messages, my thumb hovering over Melody’s name. I shouldn’t call her. She’s probably busy. Or tired. Or playing video games.

But I press the button, and the line rings.

“Hey,” she says when she picks up, her voice soft and jumpy.

“Hey,” I reply, suddenly unsure of what to say.

There’s a pause, and then she laughs lightly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just... checking. How's the leg?”

“Good.”

I hear KO! In the background and I know I'm interrupting something.

“Okay then, good to hear you're fine,” I try to wrap it up.

  “Same.”

Then I hung up.

***

The rest of the week is a grind of early mornings and late nights. Between the internship and studying, I barely have time to think about Melody, though she sneaks into my thoughts more often than I’d like to admit.

When Friday finally rolls around, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. My last evaluation at the clinic goes smoothly, and I clock out with a sigh of relief.

On my way home, my phone buzzes.

Melody: Done yet?

Me: Finally.

Melody: Are you going to drop by? I'd like to beat your ass.

Melody: like at a video game.

I laugh because why does she feel the need to rectify that. I bet she's all beetroot out there.

Me: Be there soon.

I'm exhausted and I should rest but seeing her face sounds much more fulfilling.

When I get to the house, she's the one at the door.

“Hey, genius,” she says, stepping aside.

“Hey,” I reply, trying to play it cool. Ss if I'm not screaming at the lazy outfit she had on. Lose shorts and a big anime printed t-shirt.

She tilts her head, studying me. “Long week?”

“You have no idea,” I say, shaking my head.

She holds out her hand, and without thinking, I take it.

“Come on,” she says, leading me toward her room. “You have a game to lose.”

“You wish.”

She just chuckles and I'm convinced she missed me as much as I missed her.