•Yellow brick road / Angus & Julia Stone•

Medically speaking, humans are beings of habit. We adapt, mature, and unconsciously build our own habits – our own rituals.

As you make your way back home, you find yourself doing it again and again without even thinking, just following your muscle memory – an action repeated several times becomes a part of you. You just feel lost in the middle of the road without it.

When I was a little girl, my parents read me stories every night, and my fingers have never forgotten the way to the nearest book to guide me into dreamland. My hair was my greatest pride in my teens, and I could just sit for hours in my vanity, brushing its waves calmly.

Right after I got into college, I met my best friend, and we started running three mornings a week, carrying on with our exercise even after we entered our residency years. I also had to develop the practice of washing my hands with extreme precision when my studies to become a surgeon started, and since then, I rinse my fingers from all angles whenever possible.

It's just weird not to follow these habits. They're unconscious. They're as natural as breathing.

And that is exactly why it hurts – how much it hurts to lose them.

I can't fall asleep anymore, so there's no reason to read my books. My hair stopped having its natural shine, and, for the first time since I was six, I decided to cut it to shoulder length, stealing the swing of its long waves. Morning races are no longer possible, I just waste too much time staring at my beige walls, or I don't leave the hospital, drowning myself in work. No matter how many times I wash my hands, or for how long, nor in what angle, I still feel the blood between my fingers – infiltrating my skin, leaving in me its metallic scent and stick sensation.

Things change. People adapt – in fact, most of the time, people need to adapt. We don't give up on our habits without reason. It's unnatural. It's uncomfortable. It's like holding your breath for too long. And we try to find new rituals - we need to find them.

We're beings of habit; there's no denying it.

Probably that's why I find myself sitting on my windowsill throughout the entire night. When I was a kid, I used to do this right after my father died. I remember thinking that the feeling of his loss would be the closest to emptiness that I'd ever have to experience.

Oh, how wrong I was.

A few months ago, I restarted this nocturnal ritual. I remain awake, losing myself in other thoughts, reliving other moments.

A cold winter breeze enters through the window, and I squeeze the blanket around me harder, trying to keep the heat inside my makeshift cocoon. One of my hands holds tight the tip of the fuzzy cover while the other plays with the moisture droplets on the glass, drawing shapes on it. The cars slowly begin to pass down, and the sounds increase in the awakening city. It is the end of July, the sun rising on this typical lazy Thursday.

Time bends over itself in my introspective moments. It seems to stretch so much in my mind, but simultaneously it accelerates to the rest of the world. Everything passes in slow motion before my eyes, just like I could hold each second with my bare hands. And it makes me feel nauseous as if I'm on the most winding road possible. I actually feel like I'm living at the wrong address, in another skin, because this one is too small, too scarred. The rest of the world goes on. And I sit here, trapped in my own time.

Time heals everything they said. But what the fuck do they know? Where the hell are they now? They're in the rest of the world, moving on with their lives at normal speed. They're not here, with me, at the torturous tic-tac clock.

I gradually stretch my legs. Then I turn my neck to both sides, and calmly move my entire body, feeling the circulation return to all my extremities. I inhale. And my eyes close. Exhale. And I get up.

I just need to keep moving. One step. Then another. I continue towards my door, dropping the cover at the bottom of my bed, letting the cold air embrace me. I keep going, exiting my bedroom. And I want to continue walking further; however, like all the other times I've been through this hall, I stop in front of another door.

It's just like any other door in the apartment. It's simple, white, and dull. Nevertheless, it is special; you just need to know how to look at it – or maybe feel it, and I feel, my whole body reacts to our closeness. I want to open it. Touch it, at least. But it's dangerous to open the memories door. You could get lost in there.

I force myself to continue moving towards the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee fills my nostrils, waking up some nerves in my body. Chloe, my best friend since college, is sitting on one of the stools at my long marble cooking island.

I used to love this kitchen. But I never liked cooking. Now I hate this room. And I still don't like to cook.

Chlo kind of moved into my apartment a while back; the poor thing sleeps on the knocked-out sofa in the office. But she has never complained. She even says that this arrangement helps her since my place is much closer to the hospital where we work.

What consumes me with guilt the most is not that I feel she stays here to keep an eye on me. The worst of all is that I started to realize she also doesn't run in the mornings anymore. I have destroyed her habits too.

''Good morning,'' I say, drawing my friend's attention from the computer in front of her to me. ''You didn't have to make coffee, you know?' I continue, shaking my head playfully.

''Elena, we do this every morning. Don't even try it. Just fill a mug, enjoy the caffeine, and thank me,'' she replies as her hands move nonchalantly, her blonde locks floating down her back.

Following her commands, I make my way to the coffee pot, just stopping to get a mug from my white cupboard. I feel the hot coffee in my hands and focus on it. Then I focus on the heat in my mouth and its movement going down my throat, making its way through my body.

I turn towards my best friend while leaning my hip on the kitchen stall, ''Have I told you how much I love you today?'' I ironically ask, making her laugh.

She returns her attention to the computer, grunting and swearing about the article she is working on. When my coffee ends, I go back to my room.

''Don't get lost in the article; we have less than half an hour!" I shout to Chlo in the middle of the hall, trying to use my loud voice as an anchor not to be sucked back by that damn door.

I walk to my suite bathroom, and I take a shower as fast as I can, letting the water circulate all over my body, just imagining it seeping through my pores and cleaning me inside out. I hope that maybe, in this way, I can feel my hands spotless again.

I end up going for a pair of tight jeans and a dark green turtleneck blouse. I'll spend the rest of the day in a uniform, but I still like to get dressed well.

I watch myself in the mirror, being stared back by brown, dull eyes. They used to have stars in their orbits. My hands go through my glass jewelry box, looking for my usual necklace. I comb my hair, running my fingers through its small locks, finishing this whole process in a third of the time I used to take. Finally, I close the gold cord around my neck, its heart pendant floating down my bust.

I leave behind some jewels I wore so much that their marks still reside in my epidermis. But they don't fit anymore. They don't wear my new skin – and again, how it hurts.

Me and Chloe arrive at the hospital just in time and barely stop to greet our colleagues on the way to the changer room. Whispers and locker's doors opening and closing echo through the walls while we strip down out of our normal clothes. I am halfway through my third year of neurosurgery residency, while Chlo is following the neonatal area.

I put on my dark blue uniform and wear my lab coat. I take my small notepad and make my way through the crowd of residents, starting the morning rounds.

The pungent bleach smell follows me all day, and how I love this scent – it's, strangely, being home. The vibrant lights. The constant machine's noises. The rush. All of this brings me a unique peace. I've always wanted to work in a hospital, but I never thought I'd end up here, in one of the best programs in Latin America. I still smile thinking about it.

Of course, there are also pains, memories, and problems that surround these walls. One of them I try to avoid like the plague through the floors, not always being possible – after all, it's like we're all bees in a huge, complicated hive. We spend most of our week here, all our relationships being inside this hospital. We're a crazy kind of family. From power disputes, a mix of God complexes, and the constant competition, life in these hallways isn't always peaceful. But it is still sort of home.

Till lunchtime, I hadn't stopped even for a second. I take huge bites of my double sandwich as my eyes run over the chart of my next surgery. I revise in my mind step by step of the procedure while I massage my tense shoulders.

After a few minutes, I can no longer focus on the medical records. I decide to listen to the conversation between Chloe and Chris, our other friend, who is an orthopedical resident. He is spilling the tea over what everyone in the hallways is gossiping about.

According to Chris a patient showed up in the emergency room with his girlfriend, but by his insurance data, the nurses called another woman who, surprisingly, is his true wife; and w.o.r.s.e, the next day another girlfriend arrived looking for the same man. Poor bastard.

You can even get out of the hospital alive, but your privacy without a doubt dies here – I know that very well.

I am so entertained in our silly discussion that I don't realize my phone vibrating on the table. When I see the number flashing on the screen, I instantly feel my bile rising.

The smile that had made its way to my face soon closes, my lips becoming a thin line. My best friend seems to notice my actions and stares at me, trying to read my new expression.

When the phone vibrates a second time, and I don't make any gesture to answer it, she opens her mouth, and I already regret not running away from here moments ago.

——•:•——
HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE CHAPTER. DON'T FORGET TO VOTE. THANKS FOR READING

-I promise more action in the next chapters

-Oh, I also wanted to say again that I am Brazilian and this story happens in Brazil. In here, we have our winter from June to September. In here, also, we have six years of med school (we don't have a premed, just direct to med) and five years of residency for neurosurgery.

-I hope you are enjoying the story so far and stick around.