Chapter Text
On the last day of her VA rotation, Samira doesn't have any plans. That doesn't come as a surprise, but does cause a kind of dull ache that doesn't kick in until the night before, when she's staring at her reflection while brushing her teeth. Her sense of loneliness waxes and wanes, but it certainly seems like her baseline. It makes moments of realization that she's spending yet another Friday night parked in front of the TV feel like horse pills to be prophylactically swallowed. Other options exist, but those take effort to find, and she's tired of making half-hearted attempts.
She remembers people warning her about this when she was making the decision to do the thing, to pursue med school. Make sure you create a good network, people warned her. It's really easy to feel isolated. Samira had nodded at the advice and tried to take it to heart. However, she knew it would be impossible for her to actually implement. She was an introvert, and there was no use trying to change that. COVID had taught her as much. Her roommate at the time would always lament how she was unable to see her friends or interact with strangers at the grocery store.
"It's just so hard," her roommate used to whine. "I miss being able to talk to strangers. That's what makes us human, y'know?"
Samira would nod and try to offer up some sympathy, but it never rang true. She remembered thinking on the walks she would take through her neighborhood as people crossed the street to maintain their prescribed six-foot distance that if it weren't for a novel virus ripping and mutating its way through the human race, this whole sheltering-in-place thing wasn't half bad.
It all makes her lack of plans to celebrate the end of a rotation less surprising. Much of her social life is that way, she realizes. Lackluster, but all from lack of trying. Her love life isn't much different. She's on the apps, and tries to get herself to scroll through them, but it's just a meat market. There's nothing romantic about scrolling past pictures of random guys in her area, all recycling the same tired lines. Looking for the Pam to my Jim. Let's find the best tacos in Pittsburgh together. 6'2 because I guess that matters for some reason. All induce an eye roll and an unenthused swipe to the left from Samira. The messages she receives from matches aren't much better. If she had a dollar for each time some guy in tech or finance reached out to her with a 'wanna play doctor together sometime? ;),' she could make a healthy dent in her student loan balance.
She's been going back and forth with a friend of hers from high school lately about how they should just resolve themselves to flipping off the switch on the apps that shows them men. It feels like a Band-Aid that's overdue to be pulled off, but, as her friend has pointed out, it doesn't seem like one that will go back on with the same ease with which it was removed. Samira agrees with this notion, but it does intimidate her a bit. Dating women feels new and scary. She doesn't do new and scary. At least not on purpose. At least not when it comes to her personal life. But every time she allows herself to think about it—usually while she's trying to fall asleep or waiting for the bus in the morning—it fills her with this deep, glowing feeling that she can only describe as correct. Like going to the gym on the way home from work or getting a side salad instead of fries. One of those decisions adults make that they know is good for them and that they'll enjoy, actually—once they get over the fear or annoyance of doing so.
Samira's also decided long ago, somewhere between beginning her med school track and deciding that emergency medicine is the best place to complete her residency, that a love life is overrated. At least—and she really only gets to this place of radical honesty with herself after a drink or two—it seems that way with a man. Men seem like projects to be conquered; never ending to-do lists. It's difficult to admit to herself, but she knows if she toggles that switch on Hinge to only show women in her area, it will feel like a deep sigh of relief.
She's too busy with everything else in her life to unpack why she may feel that way.
As she sits in the computer bay by the admit desk, wrapping up some last minute charting, Samira's mind wanders around the subject, each time landing in some deeper pit of loneliness and anguish. She imagines herself as a baby bird with tarred feathers, tangled up in her own malaise. Quite the metaphor, she decides, sending off her charts. She's normally not one to dwell in her own sadness (who has the time?), but maybe she'll let herself indulge this once, seeing as she's about to celebrate the end of a chapter in her life alone, yet again. She starts clicking around the computer screen aimlessly, knowing it will make her look busy as her mind blue screens. She likes to imagine that old Windows screensaver with the multicolored pipes when she zones out like this. Different pipes of thought criss-crossing her brain, all with no real discernible path or purpose.
Samira's pulled out of her fog by a colleague. She feels them reach in to tap her on the shoulder and then, at the last moment before point of contact, retreat. It makes her turn her head over her shoulder.
"Oh—! I'm sorry, uh, I d-didn't mean to scare you." Samira's gaze softens as she realizes that it's Mel, who she's only met recently but has decided that she likes, if for nothing else that she strikes her as a fellow introvert. Mel wears this fact on her sleeve more than Samira does, but because it doesn't seem like an intentional choice on her part, it endears Samira towards her even more. The two have developed the closest thing to a friendship Samira's experienced in years, or at least since med school really kicked into high gear. Mel clears her throat and fidgets with her stethoscope. "Uh, I heard that today was your last day here." Her smile is small, but inviting. "Where are you headed next?"
Samira spins in her chair so she can face Mel; give her her full attention. She's noticed that many don't bother to offer her this courtesy, so she decides that she always will, regardless of her own mood. "ED residency," she huffs, eyes widening a bit as she's reminded of the high-stress and unpredictable environment that awaits her. It's a kind of anxiety she never used to seek out on purpose—until her med school rotation at UPMC's emergency department. As scary, unpredictable, or heartbreaking as any one day could be, it was the people who compelled her to return each day, patients and fellow physicians alike. The patients were the exact kind of people she set out to help in the first place: those who fell through the cracks. The doctors, she learned, were her people (whether she knew it at the outset or not): big hearted realists who expected nothing but good karma in return for their hard work. It was inspiring; cup-filling. Despite all of this, the idea of beginning a residency in an ED is intimidating. And it's not at Presby, which is like a day spa compared to where she's been placed: PTMC. While often praised for her ability to dive into challenges headfirst, it's still something that scares Samira. Shitless, actually. Sometimes, it's scarier for her to think about how compartmentalized she's made her life for people being unable to see that within her, to only see the steely exterior she's spent so long working on.
Mel's mouth twists into its own display of anxiety. Samira chuckles at this. "I bet you'll do great there," she offers, head bobbing in a nod. "You're a good listener. I feel like that's important, y'know, when you're working in an emergency room."
"Thanks." Samira really likes Mel. She seems above common workplace bullshit in a way that she relates to. "You haven't done your ED rotation yet, have you?" Mel shakes her head.
"No," she says, relief tinging her voice. "I, uh, haven't." Samira wonders if Mel too finds the ED rotation to be terrifying, but she knows better than to ask and potentially dredge up any once-quieted fears. She offers a sympathetic smile, instead. "Are you doing anything to celebrate the end of your internship?" Mel asks, changing the subject. Samira shakes her head.
"Not really." She suddenly notices how achy her feet are as she nears the end of her shift, how her eyes feel heavy from staring at screens, whether a computer or a tablet, all day. "I might pick up some sushi on my way home, do a face mask. Finally catch up on Succession." She's sick of her group chat from undergrad inadvertently spoiling her. Mel stares at her like she doesn't know what Succession is.
"Oh," Mel adds, matter-of-factly. A silence stretches between them, only the overhead lights buzzing, then: "Would you like to?"
Samira feels a small smile twitch at the corner of her mouth. Mel's invitation is blunt, but incredibly welcome. In fact, she doesn't really realize just how welcome it is until it's out in the open, hanging over them like a cloud.
"That all sounds really nice, but if you wanted to, I… I think it's important to celebrate the little stuff, y'know? Starting your residency is a big deal." Mel can't meet Samira's eyes as she says this, staring down at her sneakers instead. "I also think that—I mean, I'd like to—spend time together outside of work." She lets out a pointed exhale after this, which makes Samira bite back a laugh. Mel laughs a bit at herself then, which gives Samira permission to join in. "Sorry," she apologizes, and is still unable to meet Samira's eyes, but it doesn't matter. Samira knows this is awkward. She'd probably do the same thing if the shoe were on the other foot. "Sometimes I think making friends as an adult is kind of like being back in kindergarten," Mel explains, her words punctuated with little nervous laughs. "At least, the way you have to ask. Explicitly." Samira lets herself laugh wholeheartedly at this. It's true.
"That's a good comparison," Samira laughs. It brings Mel's shoulders down from her ears a bit. She's able to look at Samira now, her smile still small, but consistent. Samira knows the look well; she's sure she wears it more often than not. Enthused but not wanting to wear the emotion too plainly, lest it be repellent.
"Anyway, if you don't have anything going on tonight, maybe we could get dinner together?" Mel clears her throat, laughing a bit. "As friends. Not on a date." She smiles, then catches herself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just… not really my thing." She grabs her stethoscope again, rocking back on her heels awkwardly.
"That would be really nice, actually," Samira says, offering a nod. "Thanks, Mel." She doesn't acknowledge Mel's fear that she may interpret her invitation as a date; it's not worth worrying her over. It does, however, quietly reassure the little nagging feelings that eat at her about her love life, or lack thereof. Maybe dating women wouldn't be so intimidating if she believed that she herself could attract them. Being seen as someone who could, hypothetically, go on a date with a woman (even if that observation is made by her occasionally odd but kind and well-meaning colleague) gives her a morale boost. She wishes she could thank Mel for it somehow.
"Oh—!" Mel exclaims, as if she's already anticipating disappointment. "Well, uh—I'm not off until five, but if you wanted to meet somewhere after, that would be cool." She softens a bit, Samira wondering if it's her (slowly, surely) letting her guard down. There seems to be a mutual cooling between them, like an emotional handshake. I mean you no harm.
Samira nods. "That sounds great." She realizes then that she doesn't have Mel's phone number. "I'll text you my number," she says, phone sliding out of her pocket. She wishes all pants had pockets as generous as her scrubs. Mel perks up at this, like she wasn't anticipating it. She recites her phone number eagerly, almost like she's casting a spell. Samira grins as she sends off the smiley face with sunglasses emoji. She's forgotten how good those initial sparks of friendship can feel.
Mel suggests the restaurant; a basement lounge underneath a restaurant that seems too rich—or at least too trendy—for either of their blood. Samira admits as much as they walk up to the door in the alleyway. "Yeah, I thought that too," Mel begins rather matter-of-factly, "but it's pretty unassuming." She explains that that the food is good and cheap. "Plus, they take 15% off bills for healthcare workers. Since they're so close to the children's hospital." She swings the door open, holding it for Samira before promptly following her down the stairs. Samira's more interested in staring at the framed vintage photos that line the wall of their descent. What a strange way to go on living forever; having your family photo once turned into the thrift store decorate the walls of a gentrified restaurant. Mel continues going on, not missing a beat. "I saw them on Instagram and checked them out when I realized how close they were to the VA, and now I get their sesame noodles for takeout once a week." Mel laughs at this as they pause at the host stand, maybe a bit too enthused. Samira offers a patient smile, chuckling herself.
The host, a specific kind of hot that works at trendy restaurants like this one, eyes them up from behind her podium. Samira admits that they do look a bit out of place, even if she's in her usual after-work uniform of old undergrad pullover and Philadelphia Eagles baseball cap, backpack slung over one shoulder like she's back in high school. She fights the urge to swat at Mel, who grips her backpack straps on either side of her hips like a Girl Scout.
"Just two of us," Samira says, trying to add some kind of cool affect to her voice. The cool host grabs two menus and guides them towards a couch-like booth that faces the bar. Samira admires her eyebrow piercing; wonders if she'd ever be able to pull one off. She tries to imagine getting treated by a doctor with an eyebrow piercing, wondering if it would make her feel butterflies in her stomach. She wonders if there've been any clinical studies on whether or not a patient thinking their doctor was cute would at all impact their rate of recovery. It sounds stupid, but she's seen sillier studies. If Samira had it her way, more scientists would study matters of the heart. Having medical answers to life's most unanswerable questions would make her life a lot easier. At the very least, it would quiet her mind.
The restaurant really is one of those places that makes her feel cooler for being there. Wood paneled walls, low lighting, 90s R&B playing from a turntable managed by one of the bartenders. She's never really subscribed to the idea of her phone eating first, but maybe she should tonight. Mel doesn't strike her as the type either, proving as much when their food arrives. She's more interested in making sure they have enough napkins for the table and that Samira gets her share of the the sesame noodles that Mel's ordered because they're just so good, she has to try them. It's a nice sense of camaraderie that bubbles between them, one Samira decides is worth exploring further—especially now that they won't be seeing each other at work all the time. Mel strikes Samira as someone who's like her in that neither one of them will actively pursue this friendship, even if both of them would like to. Samira decides that she probably should, feelings of awkwardness or potential overstepping be damned. She should probably attack all crossroads in her life like this from here on out. She often forgets that she needs to be an active participant in her own life for it to amount to something in the end. No one ever measured their life in hours spent terraforming their island on Animal Crossing, anyway.
"I'm sorry for kind of springing this on you," Mel apologizes, staring down into her noodles. Samira takes a sip from her beer, smile blooming on her face. "I just figured that you should do something nice on the last day of your intern rotation." She grins. Samira finds her use of a fork instead of chopsticks endearing. "I'm normally not an impulsive person." She says this with an intonation that indicates she may be trying to change that about herself.
"Well, I really appreciate it," Samira says, raising her glass in appreciation. She brings it to her lips before Mel catches on, hand only able to twitch over her Diet Coke. "We'll have to do this again when you finish at the VA."
Mel nods, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I, uh, don't know. I really like the VA." She swallows nervously. Samira offers her a life preserver.
"Do you think you'll do your residency there?"
"I don't know. I-I like being able to help people. I know that's, kind of like, all of medicine—supposed to be—but I feel like it's different. Helping veterans, I mean." Samira nods, folding her arms on the table. She's never understood why people don't like to talk about work after work. She finds talking shop fascinating; it comes as no surprise she feels the same way talking to Mel. "That's why I think you'll do so great in the ED," Mel adds, perking up a bit. "You're really good at that. At helping people." Samira smiles, absorbing the compliment. She does think that she's good at helping people. It's what draws her to medicine. She doesn't like to admit it out loud too often, worried it'll make her sound like a martyr. Samira's not interested in being canonized, just wants to do what she can while she can. It's getting harder and harder to maintain that belief, but she knows that she owes it to herself to do so. It's why it's so hard for her to gather up the fortitude to say so out loud to anyone. Maybe she'll share that with Mel. One day—not today.
"Thanks," she says, nodding. It feels good to have others recognize what you believe yourself to be true. "That means a lot, Mel. Really." Mel offers a brisk nod in return, eyes falling back down to her plate. Samira recognizes that this is her way of saying 'you're welcome,' and she takes it, sticks the feather in her cap. It's sweet.
"So where are you doing your residency?" Mel asks, and Samira appreciates her steering their conversation elsewhere. "Are you staying in Pittsburgh?"
Samira nods, taking another sip from her beer. She's never characterized herself as a big drinker, but she certainly has taken a liking to beer lately. It makes her feel like an actual adult when she tells servers and bartenders that she'll have a Yuengling instead of something frillier; girlier. Long gone are the days of her ordering green tea shots and Cosmos (because that's what Carrie Bradshaw always drank). It's freeing to order what she actually wants instead of what she thinks she should.
It's when she's got her nose in her half-full pint (some guy she went on two dates with before ghosting him once told her that beer could be sniffed just like wine), still trying to actively listen to Mel as she goes on about how she could never leave Pittsburgh, her sister would kill her, that she realizes their boss (well, just Mel's, now) is sitting up at the bar. Dr. Al.
After Samira's first day at the VA, her roommate at the time (her favorite roommate she's had, for the record) suggested that because they coincidentally began their new intern positions on the same day, that they should order takeout and split a bottle of wine while recounting their days to one another. This roommate, while always quiet and tidy, had a voracious appetite for gossip, and would take it however he could get it. Samira, on the other hand, always felt like gossiping would get her trouble—with whom, she never knew. Even as a little girl, Samira would sit and watch her mom exchange stories with her aunts about anyone they could think of, pit in her stomach sinking deeper as she imagined the potential consequences.
"Turns out all of the rumors about dermatology are true," her roommate griped between forkfuls of pad Thai. "Everything and everybody's pretty boring. Pretty, but boring." Samira could never see herself doing a dermatology rotation for that very reason. She needed something more unpredictable each day. "But how was the VA? You get to treat any hot vets?"
Samira laughed, swirled her glass of wine. "I haven't treated anybody yet," she explained, "but everyone's nice. It's busy." It made the shifts go by faster.
"How about your supervisor?"
Samira paused, trying to find the right words to deploy in front of her nosy roommate. Her silence inadvertently did the talking for her, making her roommate arch an eyebrow. A suspicious smirk grew on his face.
"Are they an asshole?" Samira shook her head, chuckling to herself.
"No," she rebuffed, shaking her head. "She just takes herself really seriously." Too seriously, she thought. She reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table, eager to top herself off. "She's really pretty. Like, too pretty to be a doctor pretty. At least at the VA." What was the name of the hospital on Grey's Anatomy? She could be a doctor there.
"Well, so are you," her roommate added, a congenial compliment between friends. "I don't know," her roommate teased, "I'd kill for a hot and serious boss. Mine doesn't seem like he knows what he's talking about half the time." Samira's roommate wasted no time pulling his phone out of her pocket, tapping furiously. "What's her name?"
"Why?"
Her roommate smiled, eyes not looking away from his phone. "I'm gonna find her Instagram."
Samira choked on her dinner, lunging towards her roommate on the couch. "Don't do that," she said, reaching for the phone, which was already pulled away from her grasp.
"Oh, c'mon. I just want to see what she looks like." Her roommate is still typing, eyes glued to his phone. "Her name?"
Samira rolled her eyes, feeling her chest tighten, although she wasn't entirely sure why. She forced herself to acquiesce, scooting closer on the couch. She pretended to have to fish for the name, as if it hadn't been top of mind all day. Her roommate, clearly a professional at this, wasted no time pulling up a (locked) Instagram profile. He shoved the phone in front of Samira's face, clearly proud of his accomplishment.
"She goes by Dr. Al at work," she interjected, as if it mattered. Samira wasn't sure how she felt about that on a personal level—at least as someone who still got her name butchered by everyone, even with the 'Dr.' slapped on the front. For whatever reason, she always thought the honorific would keep people from mispronouncing her name. It caused her heart to sink upon realization that even her higher-ups, with a decade or more experience under their belts, still suffered the same fate.
"She's pretty," her roommate adds, phone back in front of his face. "You want to see her Goodreads profile?" Samira laughs, shaking her head. She hides her warming cheeks behind another sip of wine. "I love this for you," he adds, voice lilting. "Samira has a hot boss. Incredible." He continued scrolling on his phone, smile refusing to fade.
For as long as Samira worked at the VA and lived with that roommate, he would frequently prod her with questions about the mysterious Dr. Al, and Samira would rebuff him, either by changing the subject or explaining that she really didn't work too closely with the other doctor too often to have any stories he may deem "good." She did, however, have plenty of anecdotes that she could share—if she wanted to come across as a total crazy person. They were all brief little moments that anyone normal would categorize as nothing, but because they were with this woman who she couldn't square her feelings for, they confused her. Things like asking Samira if she could tuck the tag back into her scrub top, or a gentle hand reaching out to touch the small of her back, nudging her out of the way of someone rolling down a busy hallway in a wheelchair. Little actions that made her feel like someone was looking out for her.
On very rare occasion (normally with the assistance of a few drinks), Samira would share these little vignettes with her roommate, often having to avert her gaze when retelling them. She never realized she was doing it, but her roommate did.
"Sounds like you've got a crush on your boss," he'd say, batting his eyes in a way that Samira knew was half teasing, half wanting her to let him be in on the joke with her. "It's OK," he'd always soothe, "many have been there before you. Many will end up there again."
"It's not a crush," she'd insist, but she wasn't sure if that was the truth anymore. Certainly not sure enough to look up from the fraying throw blanket she'd work at unraveling while saying so. "You wouldn't get it," she'd protest, trying to add an air of sincerity to her voice. "It means a lot to me to have a woman of color to look up to at work."
"That may be true," he'd retort, "but you can also still have a crush on her."
Samira swallowed the resulting feelings from those interactions, chalking it up to admiration. To do anything else felt dangerous.