There are moments in life that feel suspended. As if time tilts slightly on its axis and waits—just long enough—for you to decide what kind of person you want to be.
For Talia, that moment came two weeks into midterms.
She was running on caffeine, self-doubt, and precisely four hours of sleep when she stood outside the exam hall, clutching a half-torn anatomy flashcard like it held the answers to life.
Ezra appeared beside her, calm as ever—at least on the surface. His hair was a little more disheveled than usual, and he had a fresh ink smudge across his left hand, but his smile was steady when he handed her a spare pencil.
"You've got this," he said gently.
She scoffed. "You're absurdly optimistic."
"You're absurdly brilliant," he shot back, nudging her arm. "We balance each other out."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the way her lips curved. His confidence in her was reckless. Dangerous. Addictive.
The kind of thing that made her wonder—maybe love wasn't about fixing each other. Maybe it was about choosing someone who sees you clearly and still stays.
The exam was brutal.
Long-answer questions that twisted even the clearest mind into knots. A clinical case study on a cardiac patient that had her second-guessing every diagnosis. Talia's hand cramped halfway through and her leg bounced nonstop under the desk.
Still, she wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
Beside her, Ezra's expression remained unreadable—eyes focused, jaw tight, fingers moving with rhythmic certainty.
When it was over, they stumbled into the sunlight, blinking like they hadn't seen it in days.
"I feel like my brain ran a marathon and forgot how to walk," Talia muttered.
Ezra grinned. "Same. Wanna get pancakes?"
"You read my soul," she said.
They ended up at a twenty-four-hour diner on the edge of campus, the kind with sticky booths and bottomless coffee. Ezra ordered banana pancakes. Talia went with chocolate chip and extra whipped cream because, as she said, "If we're gonna crash, we might as well crash sweet."
They didn't talk about the exam.
Instead, they talked about everything else.
Movies they loved. The weirdest patients they'd seen during hospital rounds. Their childhood fears (his: bees; hers: abandonment). Their go-to karaoke songs (his: "Hero by Enrique "hers: "The Night we Met by Lord Huron").
There was something easy about the way they fit now. No pressure. No pretending.
And still… there was a question sitting heavy between them.
Talia asked it first.
"So what are we?"
Ezra's fork paused mid-air.
"I mean," she continued quickly, "are we dating? Are we something? Or just two really stressed med students who kiss sometimes and pretend it's not scary?"
Ezra set his fork down and looked at her. Really looked.
"We're scared," he said. "And tired. And barely surviving right now. But I think we're also… trying. And to me, that's something."
She chewed her bottom lip. "Trying sounds like a terrible Instagram caption."
He laughed. "What do you want it to be?"
She stared into her mug. "Something real. Something that doesn't fall apart the second it gets hard."
He reached across the table and wrapped his fingers around hers.
"I don't want to fall apart," he said. "Not with you. Not again."
Her throat tightened. She didn't say anything, but she didn't pull away either.
That was answer enough—for now.
By the weekend, the pressure returned like a tidal wave.
One of their professors announced a surprise practical exam the following Monday. Clinical procedures. Oral questioning. Live evaluation.
The med student trifecta of doom.
Talia spiraled first.
She stayed up all night in the study lounge, flipping flashcards and pacing like a trapped animal. Her notes blurred. Her hands shook. She could memorize every bone in the hand but not why her lungs felt like they were collapsing.
Ezra found her slumped over a table at 3:12 a.m., surrounded by open textbooks and untouched coffee.
"Talia," he said softly.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were red. Her face was pale. "I can't do this."
He slid into the seat beside her. "Yes, you can."
"I'm going to mess it up. I always do. And if I fail this—"
"Then we study. And we re-do it. And we keep going. That's what medicine is. It's not about being perfect. It's about persistence."
Her lip trembled.
"I don't want to be the weak one," she whispered.
"You're not," he said firmly. "You're one of the strongest people I know. But even strong people crack sometimes."
She didn't cry. Not fully. Just one tear that slid down her cheek like a secret she hadn't meant to reveal.
Ezra wiped it away with his thumb.
And for a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then, softly, she whispered, "Will you stay?"
He nodded. "Always."
Monday came.
The exam was chaos. Stethoscopes tangled. Instruments dropped. One student fainted. Another blanked out mid-procedure and ran to the bathroom in tears.
But somehow, Talia and Ezra made it through.
She nailed her blood pressure demonstration. He aced his oral questions on cardiac meds. When they passed each other in the hallway afterward, they didn't say much. Just exchanged the smallest of smiles—one that said We survived. We're okay. We're still us.
Later that night, they ended up on the roof of Ezra's building.
He'd laid out a blanket and brought snacks—a weird mix of trail mix, chocolate, and orange soda.
"Don't judge me," he said, holding out a peanut butter cup.
"Never," she replied, taking it. "Unless you start dipping these in your soda."
They sat side by side, watching the stars, listening to the city breathe beneath them.
Finally, Ezra turned to her.
"I meant what I said. I'm in this. With you."
Talia looked at him—really looked. The boy who once ghosted her. The boy who came back. The boy who knew the messy parts of her and didn't flinch.
"I'm scared," she said again.
"I know," he whispered.
Then she leaned into him, her head against his shoulder.
"But maybe," she added, "this time, I'm not scared alone."