Around midnight, when the world was draped in silence, I found myself restless. Sleep eluded me, as it often did when the weight of untapped creativity pressed on my mind. Without much thought, I reached for my brushes and let my hands take over, painting with a rhythm I didn't fully understand. Hours slipped by unnoticed, and now, at 12:30 a.m., I was seated in front of a portrait so mesmerizing it seemed to pulse with life.
She stood there on the canvas—a silhouette of grace poised on the edge of a mountain, her hair a cascade of molten gold shimmering under the first light of dawn. Her eyes mirrored the heavens, holding the quiet mystery of the night surrendering to morning. The curves of her profile, soft yet strong, blended seamlessly with the rolling hills beneath her, as if the landscape itself had shaped her.
Even now, the painting held me captive. The way her skin glowed with the sun's earliest touch, the delicate balance of blush and amber rivaling the dawn's own palette, and the breeze that seemed alive, weaving through her and carrying the scent of freedom—it all felt too real, too vivid. She was not just a figure on a canvas but an embodiment of the infinite beauty of the world.
I should be preparing to deliver it to the gallery tomorrow, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. I couldn't understand why this piece, more than any other I'd created, gripped me so deeply. Perhaps it was the way she seemed to belong to the mountain, as much a part of it as the rock and wildflowers. Or perhaps it was something more—something I couldn't name but could feel in my very bones. Whatever it was, I couldn't shake the sense that I had painted more than a portrait; I had painted a piece of my own soul.
Chucking my thoughts aside, I gave the portrait one last lingering glance before leaving it to dry. Tomorrow was a hectic day, with three surgeries lined up, and I couldn't afford to sacrifice sleep—it was crucial for my focus and precision. With that thought, I crawled into bed, exhaustion pulling me into the anticipation of the day ahead.
At around 6 a.m., a sharp ring from my phone shattered my sleep. Groggy and confused, I fumbled for the device, wondering who could possibly be calling so early. The hesitant voice on the other end belonged to a nurse, informing me about an emergency concerning one of my patients scheduled for surgery that day. My heart raced. Without wasting a moment, I jumped out of bed, took a quick shower, got dressed, and instructed the nurse on immediate steps as I rushed to the hospital.
Upon arrival, I was greeted with the unsettling news: the nurse had forgotten to administer a critical pre-operative medication I had explicitly instructed her not to miss. My blood boiled. This wasn't just a careless oversight—it was a mistake that could jeopardize the patient's condition and complicate the surgery. Anger surged through me as I let loose, yelling at the two nurses responsible. Patient lives weren't something to gamble with, and such negligence was inexcusable.
After venting my frustration, I focused on the situation at hand. I administered the required dosage myself, ensuring everything was done correctly this time. But the delay meant the surgery had to be rescheduled to allow the medication time to take effect. Frustrated but resolved, I pushed aside my anger, knowing there was no room for error moving forward.
The internship's first day began with a mix of anticipation and routine. The dean, ever thoughtful yet firmly in charge, had surprisingly asked if today was suitable for the start. Of course, he didn't need to ask—his word was final—but it was nice to see him consider the opinions of the doctors. As a neurologist with years of experience and a reputation that drew admiration from colleagues, I took pride in the trust people placed in me, often seeking my advice across fields. Despite that, I knew there was always more to learn. After delivering a concise speech in the hall—I believe in cutting to the chase rather than indulging in long monologues—I wrapped up the meeting and retreated to my cabin.
Exhaustion settled in before the day had even properly begun. Frustration got the better of me when a nurse made a mistake today, and I snapped at her, my temper flaring uncontrollably. So sitting here and reflecting on the interaction, that guilt crept in. Calling her back, I offered a sincere apology, expecting hesitation or resentment. Instead, she simply patted my shoulder with a smile, assuring me she understood. "Five years together," her expression seemed to say, "and I know your heart." In that moment, I realized once again how lucky I was to be surrounded by such understanding people, even on my less-than-perfect days.
Smiling to myself again I closed my eyes for just a moment, letting the weight of the day to settle, when it hit me—damn, I'd forgotten to inform Knight about the schedule change for the surgery. It was his case, one where he'd specifically asked for my assistance. He was probably getting ready for the original time now, completely unaware of the adjustment. Panic propelled me out of my seat and toward his cabin. Now, Knight might be a decent person to others, but our lifelong friendship meant he reserved no such courtesy for me—and honestly, I preferred it that way. He wasn't just my colleague; he was my person. With that thought in mind, I threw open the door to his cabin, only to collide with a small human-shaped force of nature. Before I knew it, we both lost our balance, and she landed squarely on top of me. Fantastic. Just the kind of drama I needed to cap this already chaotic day.