The lecture hall buzzed with hushed voices and the quiet shuffling of paper. Professor Levin, a sharp-eyed woman with a clipped accent, adjusted her glasses and began pacing across the front of the room, launching into a discussion on early literary romanticism. The room quieted as her words filled the space, steady and rhythmic.
Jane leaned slightly forward, pen in hand, her notebook already filled with notes from past weeks. She had a habit of underlining softly, almost delicately, as if preserving the paper. Despite the weight of the day—the hours spent on her feet at the café—she forced her mind to stay present, alert.
She loved words.
How they could make people feel. How, when strung the right way, they lingered. And yet, lately, her focus had been brittle, splintering without warning.
She blinked and lowered her gaze back to the notes.
The girl next to her whispered, "You okay?"
Jane glanced sideways and gave a quick nod. "Just tired," she whispered back.
"Same," the girl muttered, offering a weak smile before returning to her textbook.
Jane's fingers flexed around her pen. The professor mentioned a name—Shelley—and something stirred. She jotted it down, a little firmer this time.
The lecture flowed. Time softened. Her body may have felt the weight of the day, but her mind quietly waded through the words being said—some familiar, others fresh. She scribbled down a quote that resonated more than she expected:
"The mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness."
Her pen paused over it.
Her eyes traced the words again.
And without meaning to, she thought of the woman from yesterday.
---
As the clock neared 5:00 PM, the lecture wrapped up. Pages rustled, bags zipped, students stood and stretched. Jane took her time. She remained seated a moment longer, letting the classroom drain out around her.
Then finally, she gathered her things and made her way to the door, stepping into the cooler air of the corridor. Her evening wasn't over yet—there were assignments waiting back in the dorm and, later, maybe a few quiet minutes with her sketchbook. That was the plan.
No surprises. No detours.
At least, not today.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered slightly as Sophia stepped out of the ER, pulling off her gloves with practiced ease. Her pace had slowed, but her posture remained upright, composed. The white coat still sat crisply on her shoulders, not a wrinkle in sight, as if she hadn't spent the last several hours stitching, diagnosing, calming, and commanding.
She passed a nurse's station, nodding once at a young intern who gave her a weary but respectful glance.
"Doctor Sophia," he said, straightening up as she walked by.
"Make sure you double-check that dosage," she replied without slowing, her voice calm but firm. "He's a cardiac case, not standard meds."
The intern blinked, then quickly scribbled a note.
Sophia turned the corner into the long hallway that led toward the staff lounge. She wasn't heading there to rest—just to drop off a chart. Rest could wait.
Through the windows, the sky was turning a dusky lavender, the city lights starting to blink awake. She could hear the faint echo of monitors from rooms nearby—beeps in uneven rhythms, life ticking forward under her care.
She paused outside one of the ICU doors, glancing through the glass. A young boy lay inside, his breathing shallow but steady. Sophia's gaze softened just slightly, something flickering behind her eyes. Then, without a word, she moved on.
By the time she reached the nurse's lounge, the hallway was mostly quiet, the hum of machines and pages over the intercom now part of the background.
She sank into one of the chairs, her shoulders finally loosening. Her phone buzzed against the table. A reminder for dinner.
She silenced it without checking.
After a moment, her fingers reached up, absently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Just ten more minutes, she told herself.
Then maybe she'd go home.
Maybe.
The dorm room smelled faintly of cinnamon—the leftover scent from the tea Mia brewed earlier. A tiny desk lamp cast a soft golden hue over the room, pooling light across their open notebooks and half-empty mugs.
Jane sat cross-legged on her bed, a blanket over her knees and her chin resting in her palm. Her curls were still damp from the quick shower she took after work, a soft hoodie draped loosely over her shoulders.
Mia flopped beside her with a dramatic sigh, arms splayed wide. "If I ever agree to a double shift again, please slap me."
"I will. Gladly," Jane said with a tiny laugh.
They were quiet for a moment, the gentle hum of the fan blending with the soft rustle of pages.
Then Mia tilted her head, sly. "Sooo... are you just not going to tell me that you saw Miss Fancy Car again?"
Jane blinked, caught off guard.
"What?"
Mia sat up slightly, eyebrow raised. "Don't play dumb. You came back from the coffee run today acting all quiet and weird. That's your 'I ran into someone important' face."
Jane exhaled through a small smile. "Okay… yes. I saw her again. At the coffee shop."
Mia's eyes widened. "You're kidding. She showed up again?"
"She came in right after me. Ordered something to go." Jane's voice was calm, almost dismissive, but her fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket.
"And?"
"And... nothing." Jane shrugged. "She recognized me. Just said hello.
Mia squinted at her, unconvinced. "So that's it? No flirting, no dramatic 'you again' moment, no lingering eye contact like in those romance dramas you claim not to watch?"
Jane chuckled and shook her head. "You're being ridiculous."
"I'm just saying," Mia grinned, reaching for her mug, "the universe has a weird sense of humor. First you almost get hit by her, then you end up sleeping together, and now you keep running into her like fate's a nosy aunt."
Jane rolled her eyes, amused. "She's just… a doctor. A busy one. Probably doesn't even remember my name."
"You didn't tell her your name."
"Exactly."
Mia smirked but let it go, sipping from her mug. "Still. Doctor Fancy Car has good taste in coffee shops."
Jane didn't reply, just stared out the small window beside her bed. The city lights blinked in the distance, soft and scattered.
She didn't say it aloud—but for a split second, when she'd looked up from behind the counter and saw Sophia again, something had fluttered. Quick. Fleeting.
But easily ignored.