The hospital hallways were colder than they looked.
Even under bright fluorescent lights, the sterile walls and echoing footsteps reminded Talia and Ezra that they were no longer in classrooms, or libraries, or the warm haven of their small apartment with mismatched mugs and late-night playlists.
This was real now. Their first clinical rotation.
"I thought I'd be excited," Talia whispered as they stood outside the locker room in their scrubs for the first time, staring at their name tags. "But I kind of feel like I'm going to throw up."
Ezra glanced sideways, a slow smile creeping over his face. "Nervous system in overdrive. Classic pre-round jitters."
Talia bumped him with her elbow. "You're not helping."
He shrugged. "I memorized the entire internal medicine handbook last night, so if we're tested, we're covered."
She raised a brow. "You what?"
"Don't worry, I also made flashcards… for you."
Talia laughed despite herself. "God, you're such a nerd."
"And yet," he replied, slipping a hand into hers, "you still kiss me."
Before she could respond, their supervising doctor walked in, clipboard in hand and an authoritative air that made both of them instinctively stand straighter.
"Let's begin."
By the end of Day One, they had walked over ten thousand steps, witnessed two minor surgeries, and been mildly scolded for standing too close to a patient's monitor.
Talia's hair was frizzy. Ezra's notes were pristine. They barely spoke on the train ride home, both lost in exhaustion.
But later that night, curled up in their shared bed, Talia murmured, "I think I saw a part of myself today I didn't know existed."
Ezra ran his fingers through her hair. "The confident future doctor part?"
She smiled. "No. The terrified-but-determined part."
"You did great."
She hesitated. "I almost cried during the biopsy. It wasn't even my patient."
"That's not a flaw," Ezra whispered. "That's compassion. I think the world needs more doctors who feel things."
A few days later, things shifted.
Ezra started staying at the hospital longer. Not intentionally. Just… things came up. Cases. Study groups. A nurse who kept asking for his help with a stubborn EHR system.
Talia noticed the change before she admitted it.
The way dinner went cold. The new set of notes left on the kitchen counter instead of their usual banter. The way the rhythm between them—once so easy—started to feel… offbeat.
One night, she found herself alone on the balcony, the chill settling into her skin. She sipped lukewarm tea and stared at the city lights when she noticed it.
Her ribbon ring.
It had frayed for weeks now. Edges curling, the knot loosening slightly each day with hand-washing and the constant tug of gloves.
And now, as she stared down at her hand, it finally came undone.
It drifted softly, like a petal, onto the balcony floor.
Gone.
When Ezra came home that night—later than usual, smelling of disinfectant and paper—he found her sitting silently on the couch, the ribbon in her palm.
He sat down slowly beside her.
"Talia…"
"I know it's just a ribbon," she said quietly, "but it feels like more."
He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean for things to feel distant. It's just… rotation is overwhelming. I've been trying so hard to prove I belong."
She turned to him. "And I've been trying to keep us together. Alone."
His face twisted. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not," she said, eyes glistening. "But that's how it feels."
He was quiet, his hands resting limply in his lap.
"I miss you," she whispered.
Ezra finally looked at her. "I miss you too."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, slowly, he reached out and took the ribbon from her hand. "Maybe we don't tie it again just yet."
Talia blinked. "What?"
He looked her straight in the eyes. "Not because I don't love you. But because I want us to re-knot it when we're both ready. When we both know we're all in—not just in the good moments, but in the difficult ones too."
She studied him, and something inside her—some tightly coiled piece—relaxed.
"Okay," she whispered. "But no more late-night EHR tutorials with Nurse Celia."
He cracked a smile. "Deal."
That night, they didn't talk much more. They just sat on the floor, the untied ribbon placed between them on the rug. Not forgotten. Not discarded.
Just… waiting.
A symbol of something not broken, but paused. Like breath between words.
Like a heart waiting to beat in rhythm again.