The first few weeks on campus felt like stepping into a storm barefoot—unprepared, exposed, and desperately trying to find my footing. The place buzzed with energy, but beneath all the noise, I was drowning in silence. Classes came at me like waves I couldn't dodge. The department moved at a speed I hadn't anticipated, and Physiology? It wasn't just bones and systems—it was a language my brain hadn't learned to speak. Everything felt bigger, louder, and more demanding than I'd imagined, and I was already gasping for air.
After my classes that scorching afternoon, I was completely drained. Then came the call.
My phone buzzed—Dad. I stared at the screen, my stomach tightening. I knew exactly what this was about. I braced myself and answered.
"Yes, Daddy," I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt.
"Alora," he said sharply, wasting no time. "Have you found your rhythm? You know there's no excuse. First-year Physiology isn't a vacation."
I clenched my jaw. "I'm trying. It's just been—"
"Trying isn't enough," he snapped. "You need results, not excuses. Remember why you're there. You must make the switch to Medicine and Surgery. This Physiology course is only a bridge—and you better not fall off it."
I swallowed hard. "I know. I haven't forgotten."
"I hope not. You know the kind of grades required. You can't afford to slack—not even a little. No distractions. No friends leading you off track. Focus."
"I am focused," I said, though the words felt hollow even to me.
He paused, then continued, his tone even colder. "If you fail to make that transfer, Alora, don't bother coming to me for support. You wanted this route. Now prove you can handle it."
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen, my chest tight, a ringing in my ears. No "How are you?" No "Are you coping?" Just pressure. More pressure. Always pressure.
Back in my room, I sat on my bed, staring blankly at the wall. My fingers trembled slightly as I picked at the edge of my textbook.
My roommates walked in—Zinny first, then Lizzy. They froze when they saw me.
"Alora," Lizzy said gently, stepping closer. "Are you okay?"
"You look like you just saw a ghost," Zinny added, dropping her bag. "Or fought with one."
I gave a weak smile. "It was just my dad. He called."
"That didn't look like a just," Lizzy said, sitting beside me.
I exhaled. "He's... intense. He basically reminded me that if I don't get top grades and transfer into Medicine and Surgery, I'm on my own."
They exchanged a glance.
Zinny whistled. "Yikes. That's not pressure—that's a whole boulder."
"He's always been like that," I said quietly. "For him, anything less than perfection is failure. I'm not even allowed to feel tired."
Lizzy placed a calming hand on my back. "That's not fair to you."
"Well," Zinny said, flopping onto her bed, "then he better be ready, because you've got two roommates who'll drag your stressed-out butt across the finish line if we have to."
That made me smile.
As I calmed down, I found myself learning more about them. Lizzy was studying Medicine and Surgery—two years ahead of me. Calm, composed, and always prepared. She told me how she nearly cracked under pressure during her second semester—how Zinny had been the one who reminded her to breathe.
Zinny, loud and unapologetic, was a Political Science major. She called herself "the failed pre-med," proudly telling me how she ditched it in her first semester after realizing she hated blood, hospitals, and pressure. "Now I argue for a living," she joked.
Their stories made me feel less alone. They weren't perfect. They just kept going.
Still, even with all their kindness, I found myself withdrawing when the pressure mounted. On those days, I'd slip away to the campus library—a quiet haven just a few blocks from my dorm. Something about the rows of books, the soft rustling of pages, and the occasional whispers made it feel safe—like I could breathe again.
It was during one of those escapes that I met Nadia.
She was already seated when I walked in, surrounded by open textbooks and a sleek laptop, her brows furrowed in intense focus. Her locs were pulled into a messy bun, and her fingers tapped a rhythm against the table as she read. I found a spot across from her, too tired to care about making conversation—until I realized she was humming under her breath.
I glanced up. She smiled.
"Physiology 101?" she asked, nodding at the book in my hands.
"Yeah," I said, exhaling. "And it's trying to kill me."
She laughed—not in a mocking way, but like she understood. "It tried that with me too. Don't worry—you'll survive. Just barely."
We both chuckled.
"I'm Nadia," she said, extending her hand.
"Alora," I replied, shaking it.
"Let me guess—first year?"
"Is it that obvious?" I chuckled, though my face betrayed my exhaustion. "Totally overwhelmed."
Nadia leaned back in her chair, stretching casually. "I remember that feeling. Especially in this department. They like to throw you into the fire and see who manages to crawl out."
I blinked. "Wow. That's... comforting."
She grinned. "I mean it in the best way. It gets better—once you find your rhythm. The right study group can work wonders."
Something about her tone made me relax. She wasn't trying to impress or intimidate. She was just real.
"What year are you in?" I asked.
"Second," she said. "Been through the fire already."
"Then I'm sticking close to you," I joked.
"Smart move," she said with a wink. "You're already learning."
We laughed, the kind of easy laughter that loosened something tight in my chest. After a few minutes of quiet reading, curiosity got the better of me.
"Sorry to interrupt," I said, glancing at her, "but what's your take on Dr. Chris?"
Nadia looked up, raising a brow. "Dr. Chris, the Gross Anatomy lecturer?"
I nodded. "Yeah, that one."
She let out a short laugh. "You already have thoughts, don't you?" she said, leaning in. "Come on—spill."
I hesitated for a second, unsure how honest I should be. "I honestly think he's unnecessarily strict, and half the time, he doesn't even teach—he just... brags."
Her eyes lit up. That was all the encouragement I needed.
"He's always going off about how many surgeries he's done or where he studied abroad," I continued. "Meanwhile, the lecture slides are a mess. He barely explains anything clearly, and everyone acts like he's the coolest thing ever just because he cracks a dry joke now and then."
Nadia clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Oh my goodness," she whispered, then burst out, "Finally! Someone who sees it! I had a full-blown argument with one of my coursemates over this man. I swear, I thought I was losing my mind. People actually like him—it makes me want to throw up."
We both doubled over in laughter, failing to keep quiet. A few heads turned, but we didn't care. In that moment, I felt like I'd found an ally in the madness.
From then on, our conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about everything—from the lecturers who actually knew how to teach to the ones who treated class like a TED Talk no one asked for. She told me about a hidden coffee spot tucked behind the library—her go-to escape on rough days. We even swapped study techniques, laughing at how different our learning styles were.
A few hours later, after we'd been reading in silence for a while, I closed my book and turned to her.
"Hey, Nadia... I need to ask you something. Serious."
She leaned in. "Hit me."
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "What are the odds of someone in Physiology actually switching to Medicine and Surgery after first year?"
Her smile faded, replaced by something thoughtful. "It's possible. But not easy. They only take the top of the top—like, shining-star top."
I swallowed. "What if someone has the passion, but... the pressure is eating them alive?"
She studied me for a long moment, like she already knew. "Is this about you?"
I nodded slowly. "My dad—he's obsessed with me getting into Med. He didn't want me in Physiology to begin with. Said this was just a means to an end. If I don't make it, he'll probably cut me off."
She leaned back, arms crossed. "That's a hell of a thing to carry."
"It's not just carrying it. It's suffocating under it," I admitted. "I'm scared I won't be enough. And if I'm not, I lose more than a dream. I lose his support."
Nadia was quiet for a beat. Then she said, "You're not the only one who's had to fight for a dream while someone else held the whip. But listen—you have to want it. Not for him. For you. If this switch happens, it'll be your hands that make it, not his voice shouting in your ear."
I blinked back the emotion rising in my throat.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough," I whispered.
She gave a slow smile. "Then stay close. I've been through the fire. I know where the water is."
We didn't speak for a while after that. But the silence was warm, not heavy. And in it, I knew I'd found more than just a study partner. I'd found someone who saw me.
Her words sank deep. They stayed with me long after we packed up our books and walked out of the library together. For the first time in weeks, I felt seen—not just for my ambition or struggle, but for the quiet chaos beneath it.
In Nadia, I felt the beginnings of something rare: understanding.