The day after seeing Theo, I woke up before my alarm. Not in a panic, not because of some leftover nightmare, just... awake.

The apartment was quiet, sunlight barely touching the hardwood floor. I made coffee and sat at the table. I opened my laptop, and the school website was still open, right where I’d left it days ago.

Deadlines. Requirements. Essays. Transcripts. I scrolled past the intimidating checklist and clicked on the blank application form. My heart didn’t leap, my hands didn’t shake, just a slow breath, the way you feel when you know the water’s cold but you’re stepping in anyway.

I didn’t fill it out yet, but I didn’t close it either.

The clinic was steady that week. Dr. Rao gave me more responsibility: tough cases, prickly clients, a surgery assist. Nothing wild, but enough to feel real, enough to make me tired in the way I used to like.

One morning, I stayed late to help with a neglected rescue dog that needed more than we could give in a single visit. When the owners left, grateful and overwhelmed, I sat in the break room with a cup of lukewarm tea, letting the weight of the day settle in my bones.

Dr. Rao walked in, leaning against the doorframe. "You handled that well."

"Thanks," I said. I meant it, no deflection or shrug.

She nodded, then after a pause, added, "You ever think about what comes next? After this?"

I looked up. "Every day."

She smiled like she knew. "Well, when you're ready, if you need a letter... let me know."

It hit me harder than I expected, not because it was a surprise, but because she said it without an agenda, without pressure, like she believed I could belong somewhere again.

That night, in therapy, Jo didn’t even have to ask. I brought it up first.

"It’s not like I’m cured," I told her, legs curled beneath me on the couch. "I still get this tightness in my chest when I think about school. About failing again. About being that girl who couldn’t cut it."

"And yet?" she prompted.

"And yet I think I might want it again. I don’t even know if that makes sense."

She smiled. "It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be true."

That stuck with me.

Later, at home, I opened the document titled: Personal Statement Draft.

I didn’t write much, just a line.

I thought I broke, but it turns out I bent. I learned how to build something new from the pieces.

I didn’t hit save, but I didn’t delete it either.

It was a start.