Beside

51 - boundless

"Jellybean? Are you okay? What does it feel like when you don't feel good?"

"Like I'm stuck in a fog. Everything feels far away, even my own body."

"That sounds scary."

"It helps when you're here. Please don't go."

ᖴO᙭

Today's not my day. From spilling Charlie's dog food on my other button-down to stepping into a rain puddle in my best shoes, it's just not my fucking day.

I straighten the collar of my white dress shirt, but this one's too small for my shoulders now. Everything about the office—GoldwenU's Registrar—is too perfect, like they vacuum the life out of it every night with a carpet cleaner.

There's the clack of a keyboard and the drone of the AC blowing air cold enough to cut bone. The woman behind the front desk looks up as I enter. Her long black hair catches in the sterile light, and she stares a second too long, her lips parting.

"I'm here for the photos," I say, my voice flat. It feels like I've used up everything else. No patience. Just tired.

She startles, cheeks flushing crimson. "Of course, right! Down the hall, on the left. The arrows will take you there. Good luck."

"Thanks."

The hall's carpeted in a faded maroon that muffles my steps. Not that I'm in a hurry. There's a line up ahead—five people already waiting, all with puckered expressions and dressed like they'll cut my throat with a cold smile.

A few guys in dress shirts, ties half-knotted, one girl in a blazer too stiff for her, another in a navy sweater that falls just short of the formal dress code but looks fine. They're all here for the same reason I am. Key card photos for med school, proof we made it to the starting line.

This is the future of medicine, I guess.

The thought should make me feel something. Pride maybe, or accomplishment. But I can't shake the emptiness like there's a hole where all that fulfillment should be.

Finally, my turn comes up. The photographer, a bored guy with a short beard and a tripod points to the stool. I sit, bringing one foot up, forcing myself to hold steady. He squints at me from behind the camera. "Smile, kid."

Smile. Right.

My eyes are hollow, I know they are. I know the look I'm giving him—it's the same one I catch in the mirror on the days I look too long.

Fucking nothing.

The photographer clears his throat. "I don't got all day. Come on, kid, smile."

I close my eyes, digging deep, reaching back into my mind for something to pull out, even for a second. I see Butterfly Chris on that night at Eclipse, hiding at the bar alone, hands folded under her chin, her smile a tentative thing, half-nervous, not quite sure if she could belong in that world.

A part of me swells, a mixture of pride to fill the gaping hole and something else I won't name. Not yet.

She's changed, grown, and stepped into something new. I don't care if I'm not allowed to feel proud of her, if I don't have any right to. I am. I'm proud as hell.

I open my eyes, and the flash goes off, searing white into my vision.

The photographer nods, not even glancing at me. "How charming. Next!"