The email came on a Wednesday. I read it in the breakroom while microwaving leftover stir fry, the smell of soy sauce and overcooked broccoli rising with the steam.

"We appreciate your honesty and your courage in applying. Unfortunately..."

I stopped reading. I didn’t need the rest.

I stood there for a moment, letting it settle, not like a blow, but like weather, just a passing front. I was still breathing. Still holding the warm Tupperware. Still me.

Dr. Rao walked in, glanced at me, then at the microwave. "Bad news or just broccoli?"

I smiled. "Both."

She waited. I nodded toward the phone. "Didn’t get in."

She didn’t offer clichés or rush in with pep talks. She just leaned against the counter and said, "So?"

"So... I try again," I said. And I meant it. "But first, I keep getting better."

Later that week, Jo asked how I felt about the rejection. I thought for a while, then said, "Relieved and a  little disappointed, but not wrecked. I think I’m finally in the right chapter of my life, even if the page didn’t turn the way I thought it would."

She nodded. "That’s the kind of resilience you can’t fake."

I kept working. I kept going to therapy, and I kept resting when I needed to. I even started sleeping through the night more often than not.

The application file stayed on my desktop. I didn’t bury it, and I didn’t obsess over it either. It was just there, unfinished, but not forgotten.

One night, after a long shift and a quiet walk home, I opened it again.

Not to rewrite, just to remind myself I still could.

The cursor blinked. My breathing stayed steady.

I’m still standing, I’m still trying.

I’m still here.