"A Love That Lasts"

The hum of fluorescent lights filled the early morning air, punctuated by the soft beeps of heart monitors and the low murmur of nurses beginning their shift. The hospital, as always, moved with a rhythm all its own—precise, relentless, familiar.

But something felt different to Zayra.

Not in the patients. Not in the floor plan she could navigate with her eyes closed. Not even in the charts she reviewed by instinct.

The difference was in her.

She wasn't healed. Not yet. The ache still lingered in quiet corners of her chest. But she was no longer bleeding.

As she stood behind the nurses' station, flipping through a patient file, she heard soft footsteps approach.

"Peace offering," Mila said, holding out a to-go cup. "Chocolate latte. The one with extra foam."

Zayra blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

"You didn't have to…" she began, her voice cautious.

"I wanted to," Mila said gently. "And not just because of what happened. I miss my friend."

There it was—the first genuine thread stitching the gap between them.

Zayra took the cup. Warm. Comforting. Like muscle memory.

"Thanks," she said, voice softer now. "I missed you too."

They didn't hug. They didn't rehash the past. They didn't need to. The look they exchanged said what words couldn't: We'll be okay.

Later, in the pediatric wing, Zayra crouched beside a six-year-old boy tucked beneath a cartoon-covered blanket. His lip quivered slightly as he clutched a stuffed lion.

"You know," she said, adjusting the fabric under his chin, "superheroes don't just fly and wear capes. Sometimes, they're kids who stay strong even when they're scared."

His eyes widened. "Then I'm definitely a superhero."

Zayra smiled. "That's what I thought."

Moments like this—tiny and infinite—reminded her why she chose this path. Love may have betrayed her. But purpose never did.

The rooftop terrace was nearly empty during lunch, save for a few pigeons and the low hum of traffic rising from below. The air smelled faintly of spring—concrete still warm from the sun, and something floral drifting in from somewhere unseen.

Zayra sat with her salad untouched, chin resting in her hand, staring out over the city.

Dr. Lissa appeared a moment later, folding into the seat beside her.

"I'm going to say something bold," she said. "Tell me to shut up if I need to."

Zayra arched an eyebrow. "Now I'm intrigued."

Dr. Lissa leaned in slightly. "Have you ever thought about applying to the nurse practitioner program? You've got the brains, the grit, and your patient outcomes are some of the bests on the floor."

Zayra blinked. She had thought about it. A long time ago. Before Mark. Before grief clouded everything.

"I used to," she admitted. "I just… didn't think I was ready."

"Well, maybe now you are," Dr. Lissa said. "New chapters, right?"

The phrase caught her off guard. It was what she'd whispered to herself the night before, staring up at her ceiling: New chapters.

Zayra looked at her, surprised at how much those words mattered coming from someone else.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "New chapters."

She pulled out her phone. No hesitation. No overthinking.

She searched the program's application page and bookmarked it.

A beginning, tucked inside a single click.

The day passed. Her shift ended.

Tired but proud, Zayra changed into street clothes, moving slowly, savoring the quiet of the staff locker room. Her limbs ached, but it wasn't the kind of exhaustion that hollowed her out—it was the kind that made her feel alive.

She shut her locker.

And there he was.

Mark.

Leaning against the far wall, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes heavy with something between guilt and desperation.

"Zayra…" His voice was tentative. "Please. Can we just talk?"

She didn't flinch. She didn't stumble.

"There's nothing to say," she replied calmly. "Not that I haven't already heard in my head a hundred times."

"It was a mistake. One night. I was drunk—stupid—"

"No," Zayra cut in, firm. Steady. "You made a choice."

He looked at her then—really looked. At the woman who stood before him, no longer soft for him, no longer waiting for him.

"And so have I."

She walked past him.

He reached out instinctively. But stopped himself.

And she kept walking, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the tile floor. She didn't look back.

That night, Zayra sat at her kitchen table, the hum of the fridge and the city beyond her window the only noise in the room.

The laptop screen glowed softly in front of her.

Application — Nurse Practitioner Program: Start Your Journey

She stared at it for a moment. Then, with fingers that only trembled a little, she clicked Start Application.

Then she opened the Notes app on her phone, typing something simple. Something true.

"Healing isn't loud. But I'm doing it anyway."

And for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel broken.

She felt ready.