Love You More(19)

— My studio on West 165th Street was almost as small as our U-Haul and only slightly more refined than the Sunrise Motel. In ninety-degree heat, we hauled boxes and furniture up three flights of stairs until our backs ached and our shirts were soaked through. From there, we returned the truck, made a Target run, bought bodega groceries, and scrubbed the tiny bathroom with Comet until the whole place smelled like bleach and lemons—the simple, exhausting work of claiming new territory.

Late that afternoon, we explored Washington Heights and the nearby medical school campus, then took the subway down to Columbia’s main campus, the city falling oddly silent behind the stone fa?ades. We wandered past the broad steps of Butler Library and the quiet symmetry of the quad, posing for selfies in front of the Alma Mater and Hamilton statues.

Afterward, we visited St. John the Divine, staring up at the stone ribs of the nave. The air in the cathedral was cool and hushed, dust catching in shafts of light.

“Should we light a candle?” Mick whispered, gesturing toward a votive stand glowing with tiny flames.

I nodded, our footsteps echoing along the curved walkway. We each took a taper, lighting them from another flame. They trembled, then caught—steady and gold.

I glanced at Mick. His eyes were closed, his lips moving in a silent prayer. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, but just in case, I offered a prayer of my own: Please watch over my friends, family, and Mick and me. Please keep our love strong and true.



* * *



— For the next few days, Mick and I ventured all over Manhattan, doing all the usual touristy things—museums, Times Square, the Statue of Liberty. As we ate hot dogs from a food cart in Central Park, he said, “You’re going to love it here.”

I looked at him, a little surprised. Just twenty minutes earlier, we’d seen a rat scuttling into a sewer, and he’d made a comment about how filthy cities are.

“You think?”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “You’re going to do great things. I can feel it.”

I met his gaze, awash with relief that he could feel it, too—the hum of endless possibility.

“Thank you. I needed to hear that,” I said, wondering how you could feel excitement and heartbreak at once.



* * *



— Mick stayed through my first week of orientation—a blur of name tags, nervous smiles, and welcome speeches. There were financial aid briefings, social mixers, and trips to the bookstore.

That Friday, my parents flew in for my White Coat Ceremony, checking into a hotel on the Upper West Side. The following morning, Mick and I met them outside the medical school building.

“Look at you,” my mom said, smoothing my hair like I was heading into the first day of kindergarten.

“Dr. Wright,” my dad said, his voice breaking.

Mick stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets, watching with a soft smile. When our eyes met, something fluttered in my chest—love, longing, and the faint dread of him leaving.

Inside the auditorium, a dean with a polished voice gave a speech about compassion, rigor, and the privilege of caring for others. Pride swelled in my chest with only a thin ribbon of impostor syndrome.

When it was my turn to step onstage, Mick’s whistle cut through the applause. As the faculty member settled the clean white coat over my shoulders, the fabric felt stiff and symbolic, like responsibility made visible.


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* * *



— At the end of the weekend, my parents flew back home, and a day after that, it was Mick’s turn to leave. We hailed a cab on Broadway, then stood at the curb, saying our final goodbyes. When the driver honked, I cracked, tears flowing. Mick pulled me into his arms.

“I love you,” I said, my voice muffled against his shoulder.

“Love you more,” he whispered in my ear.

Then he climbed into the cab and shut the door with a soft thud, pressing his hand to the glass. I kept my eyes on that taxi until it vanished into traffic.



* * *



— The next day, classes began. They were a welcome distraction from my heartbreak, but New York still pressed in on me—the sirens in the middle of the night, the stink of hot garbage, shoulders clipping mine on the sidewalk. I kept asking myself what I was thinking coming here, the ache in my ribs telling me I’d made a big mistake.

On one particularly bad day, my scalpel slipped in anatomy, and I nicked the brachioradialis of my cadaver. Heat flooded my cheeks; my lab partners froze; and the professor called me out in front of the whole class.

When I told Mick what happened, he said, “Look on the bright side—you’ll never forget that muscle now!”

“Yeah. Neither will anyone else in the room,” I said.

“So you did them all a favor,” he said. “Way to be collaborative.”

I smiled, the sting of the mistake already fading.



* * *



— Our nightly phone calls became my lifeline. I’d lie in bed listening to his voice in my ear as he told me what he’d made for dinner or repeated something funny Maeve had said. Sometimes I could hear the TV in the background—the hum of ordinary life—and I clung to it, letting it tether me to home.