“Excuse me,” a voice behind me said.
I jumped, startled. A short older woman stood behind me. Her face was striking—eyes stuck in a perpetual squint and a jaw that was impressively angular under weathered brown skin. Despite her severe features, she gave off an aura of gentleness. She gave me a sheepish smile.
“I think I am a bit lost,” she said. She had an accent. “I’m looking for room 5078?”
Something about her felt familiar. Maybe it was the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, or the strong bridge of her nose. A part of me was sure I’d met her before.
The moment it clicked, I was flooded with panic. My heart took off like a racecar down a track, pounding so feverishly that I could feel it whooshing in my ears.
Relax, Angie. Not every old Mexican lady is going to be Ricky’s abuela.
“Oh,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “You’re on the right floor. Just keep headed straight, beyond these elevators, and take a right through the first set of double doors. That should get you close.”
She smiled again, touching my arm in gratitude. “Oh, thank you.”
I watched her walk down the hall, clutching my phone tightly. My stomach felt like it was lodged in my throat. What was wrong with me, that everything I encountered seemed to remind me of him? When would this end? I had been getting better. Even without my friends physically present to distract me, I’d managed to fill my mind with things* that weren’t him. It had felt like recovery.
The woman took a left turn instead of a right. No wonder she’d gotten lost; her sense of direction was worse than mine. I considered leaving her be—it was late, after all, and I had exactly two hours before I ought to be in bed—and then imagined her wandering around the hospital aimlessly and sighed.
“Ma’am?” I called out, jogging toward her. She jolted, then raised her eyebrows as I approached. “Ma’am, no, that’s the wrong way.”
“Oh, oh no,” she said, chuckling to herself. “I’m very bad at this. Hospitals . . . they’re very confusing.”
Recalling how expertly I’d gotten myself lost during orientation, I laughed.
“You’re not wrong. Here, let me help you.” I walked ahead of her back into the common hallway, pressing a silver button to open the double doors I’d meant for her to take. “Go through here.” I walked through the doors and to the end of the hall, then pointed to the right. “The numbers get bigger from here. We’re at 5072 right now, and so 5078 is just a little bit farther.”
The woman clapped her hands together, pleased, then gave me a smile like I’d just told her she’d won the lottery.
“Thank you so much. I can find it from here, I think.” She reached over and patted my arm again. “You seem like a nice doctor. Please stay that way.”
This was probably the first time I’d been mistaken for a doctor, rather than a nurse or a cleaning lady.
“I’m still a student,” I clarified. “But I’ll remember that!”
That seemed to satisfy her. With a firm nod, she began a purposeful walk toward the room. I watched her go, suddenly exhausted.
It had been almost a month since I’d ended things with Ricky, and not a day had passed that I hadn’t thought of him. Sometimes, the thoughts were innocuous—I considered checking his Instagram to see if he’d posted any new art, or reflexively pulled out my phone to text him about a situation I knew he would find funny before remembering that that was something I could no longer do, or spotted his gifted peace lily out of the corner of my eye.* But other times, my mind went down dangerous rabbit holes （Was he seeing someone new? Or, worse, had he gotten back with Camila?） and I would have to claw myself away from the brink of a nervous breakdown.
“You have to be nicer to yourself,” Tabatha said when I called her one day in hysterics, frustrated by my lack of progress. “You know, they say it takes about twice the length of a relationship to get over someone.”
Which meant that I had ten months* left of this suffering. It felt like a prison sentence, and I marked each day that I managed to roll out of bed and get my shit done as a victory.
My phone dinged.
Don’t forget to send me your measurements, Momma said.
I walked out of the hospital into the cool, fall evening, scrolling through my phone for the photo I’d taken of the measurements sheet she’d sent me earlier that week. I’d unblocked my parents shortly after receiving my research funding, and though I didn’t feel quite ready to pick up their calls, we had been texting back and forth. Only ever pleasantries, of course—in the evenings, I sent them a good night text, and in the mornings, Momma sent me a floral picture containing a Bible verse. We were so careful not to discuss the cause of our rift, and I didn’t want to rock the boat, grateful for our clumsy balancing acts.*