The room shifts around me, voices picking back up, my pulse still loud in my ears, and the echo of her words settles somewhere deeper than they should.
Later, when she finds me in the hallway, it’s not with raised voices or theatrics but something far worse—control. She stops just close enough that I have to turn, her gaze sweeping over me once before she speaks. “I’ve heard,” she says, each word measured, “that you’ve had reasons to be this… distracted.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my posture straight.
“You have raw talent.” She lifts a hand, examining the immaculate red of her nails. “But I have seen better doctors than you lose everything because they mistook potential for immunity.”
Her eyes lift to mine, sharp, unyielding.
“This is not a place for divided attention, Dr. Hollis. Patients do not care about your personal life, and neither do I. If you cannot keep it from interfering… the stakes are higher in this profession.”
The words don’t rise in volume, don’t need to.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say, flat but steady.
She studies me for a beat longer, then nods once, curt. “Good. Decide what kind of doctor you intend to be before someone decides for you.”
She walks away without another glance, the click of her heels fading down the hall.
I stand there for a moment, sharpening the sting of her words into something useful—a scalpel to cut out this part of me swimming in grief. When I finally move, it’s with purpose, structure, and control.
Lunches with Julian aren’t a distraction. Going out, maybe once a week, is okay. Everything else belongs to the work, to the hours, to the version of me that does not hesitate, does not drift.
And Nate?—
The thought presses in, sudden and unwelcome, the memory of sunlight on stone, of his voice, of the way I felt standing next to him, and the future I’d felt we’d have if I could just shape it.
I shut it down, hard. There’s no room for that part of me. I can’t let that part of me have a hold on me. Not if I want to be the kind of doctor who would have saved my mom.
The chief residentlet me borrow this small conference room for a virtual call. The cubicle looks more sterile than it smells. All walls and surfaces are stripped of any personality; the only decoration is a pencil holder with no writing utensils and a Keurig machine with an inch of dust.
My laptop screen reflects my face—hair in a relaxed bun, tendrils framing my cheeks, enough makeup to disguise that I haven’t slept in eighteen hours. There’s that signature professional tiredness that goes with being a doctor, and somehow, self-assuredness. It feels strange, this calm that comes from knowing I can project competence without breaking a sweat.
The woman on the other end of the call leans forward, clasping her hands. “Your references are excellent, Dr. Hollis. We’re impressed with your casework. We’re also excited to see publications to your name, especially the post-stroke rehabilitation study you coauthored.”
I shouldn’t be surprised she’s looked beyond my résumé and cover letter. Of course she wants to know every candidate inside and out. Neurology is competitive, only five percent of candidates find a placement of their choosing. I should woo, charm, and bring up my strengths rather than having her look for them.
She glances down at her notes, then back up with an approving lift of her brows. “And I have to say, we were intrigued by your elective diagnostic fellowship. Not many neurologists choose to step into that environment.”
My breath catches, and I hold it in. This is when her innocent question forces me to air out my underwhelming performance on my board exams, in case she missed the disclaimer on my CV.
Instead, there’s almost warmth in how her eyes wrinkle at the corners. “It speaks to your initiative to understand the full continuum of patient care.”
The compliment catches on something inside me, unexpected. My grip tightens on the laptop’s edge, thumb tracing the groove near the trackpad. I nod once, then again—too quickly. “Thank you,” I say, voice even, though my neck feels warm and my collar suddenly too tight.
Her tone softens, the smile polite but curious. “You’re certain you’d be willing to relocate? We could offer a modest package.”
For a second, the question hovers in the sterile air. My throat tightens, but not from nerves.
Relocate.
I’d made so many choices around building a life in this city. Consult hours and weekend strolls along the lakeshore, a small condo with more baking tools than I’d even know what to do with, maybe even a dog, certainly babies. Snippets of a life arranged around one unshakable certainty: that Nate and I would be together. Now, Chicago feels more like a stop in my journey than a destination.
“Yes,” I state, my voice steady but low. “I’m more than willing to relocate.”
She nods, jotting something down. “Excellent. You can expect to hear from us soon about next steps.”
