The buzz of fluorescent lights and distant monitor beeps fill the air, as the hospital begins to stir with its usual rhythm. But today, something feels different to Zayra. It isn't the patients or the schedule. It's her.
She's not healed—not yet. But she's no longer bleeding.
As she finishes her morning chart reviews, Mila walks up with two coffees in hand.
Mila: (handing her one) "Peace offering. It's that chocolate latte you like."
Zayra: (surprised) "You didn't have to—"
Mila: "I wanted to. And not just for what happened. I miss my friend."
Zayra softens, the stiffness in her shoulders easing just a little.
Zayra: "Thanks. I missed you too."
They exchange a small smile, the kind that says we'll be okay.
Later, in the pediatric wing…
Zayra crouches beside a young patient, helping him adjust the cartoon-printed blanket tucked under his chin.
Zayra: "You know, superheroes don't just fly and wear capes. Sometimes, they're kids who stay strong even when they're scared."
The boy grins, eyes lighting up.
Patient: "Then I'm definitely a superhero."
Zayra: (smiling) "That's what I thought."
Moments like this remind her why she does this work. Love may have betrayed her—but purpose never does.
Lunch break – Rooftop terrace….
Zayra sits with her salad untouched, gazing over the city. The air smells of spring—sun-warmed concrete and distant blossoms. Dr. Lissa joins her.
Dr. Lissa: "So, I'm going to say something bold… Tell me to shut up if you want."
Zayra: (amused) "I'm intrigued. Go on."
Dr. Lissa: "You ever think about applying for the nurse practitioner program? You're sharp, organized, and your patient outcomes are some of the bests on the floor."
Zayra blinks. It's something she's thought about, once. Before Mark. Before heartbreak clouded her clarity.
Zayra: "I used to consider it. Just didn't think I was ready."
Dr. Lissa: "Well, maybe now's the time. New chapters, remember?"
Zayra looks at her, startled by how perfectly those words echo her own from the night before.
Zayra: "Yeah. New chapters."
She pulls out her phone and, without overthinking, opens the university's application page. She bookmarks it.
Time passed. Zayra's shift was over. It had been a tiring day, but it was finally over—a quiet moment to breathe, to sit in the silence and let the weight of everything slowly lift.
She changed into her street clothes slowly, the weight of exhaustion and quiet pride coexisting inside her. As she shut her locker, she noticed a familiar silhouette by the door.
Mark.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, guilt weighing on his face like a shadow.
Mark: "Zayra… Please. Can we just talk?"
She meets his eyes. The pain is still there, but it's no longer consuming her.
Zayra: "There's nothing to say that I haven't already heard in my head a hundred times."
Mark: "It was a mistake. One night. I was drunk, stupid—"
Zayra: (firm) "No. You made a choice. And so have I."
She steps past him. For a second, he reaches out—but then lets his hand fall, watching as she walks away, this time not looking back.
That night…
Zayra sits by her small kitchen table, application window open, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Her heart races—not from fear, but from possibility.
She clicks "Start Application."
Then she opens her Notes app and writes:
"Healing isn't loud. But I'm doing it anyway."