He asked me about nursing, about how long I’d been doing it, about whether I liked it.
He listened when I talked—really listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak.
When they were getting ready to leave, Trevor turned to me.
“This is going to sound strange, but… would you want to get coffee sometime? When I’m not in the emergency room, I mean. When it’s less chaotic.”
I said yes.
Our first date was at a cheap diner near the hospital.
I wore my green dress, the one that always made me feel pretty.
Trevor showed up fifteen minutes early, clutching a single daisy he’d bought from a street vendor.
He was nervous, talking too fast, knocking over his water glass.
I helped him clean it up, and we both laughed, and somehow that broke the tension.
“I don’t have much,” Trevor said over burgers and fries. “I mean, I really don’t have much. I live in a studio apartment with two roommates. I work forty hours a week at minimum wage and I eat ramen most nights. I’m probably not the best person to date right now, but—”
“But?” I prompted.
“But I really like you, Relle,” he said. “And I’m going to be a doctor someday. A good one. I’m going to help people, and I’m going to make something of myself. And if you’re willing to take a chance on me now, while I’m broke and struggling, I promise I’ll make it worth your wait.”
There was such sincerity in his voice, such genuine hope.
I’d dated other guys before—guys with money, guys with stable jobs, guys who were already where they wanted to be.
None of them had made me feel the way Trevor did in that moment, like I could be part of something important, like I could help build something meaningful.
“I like you, too,” I told him.
We dated for eight months before he officially got back into medical school.
He’d saved enough for one semester and was taking out massive loans for the rest.
I watched him study for twelve, fourteen hours a day.
He fell asleep over textbooks.
He practiced suturing techniques on oranges in our tiny apartment.
Oh yes—we’d moved in together after six months.
It made financial sense.
My apartment was bigger than his studio, and splitting rent meant he could save more for school.
His roommates were happy to see him go.
I was happy to have him.
I loved those early days.
Trevor was attentive and grateful.
He cooked dinner when I worked late shifts, even if it was just pasta and jarred sauce.
He rubbed my feet after long days.
He told me constantly how much he appreciated me, how much I meant to him, how he couldn’t do any of this without me.
When he started medical school, everything changed.
But it changed gradually—so gradually I barely noticed at first.
“Babe, I can’t work this semester,” he told me two weeks before classes started. “The coursework is too intense. Everyone says first year is brutal. I need to focus completely.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I can pick up extra shifts.”
And I did.
I went from three twelve-hour shifts a week to four, then five.
The hospital was always short-staffed.
They were happy to have me.
“The books cost fifteen hundred,” Trevor said, showing me the list. “And I need a laptop that can run the medical software. My old one is dying.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I promised.
I opened a credit card “just for emergencies,” I told myself.
School expenses counted as emergencies.
Trevor’s first semester of medical school, I worked sixty hours a week.
My paychecks went to our rent, his tuition, his books, groceries, utilities, and the minimum payments on my credit card.
I’d been saving for a master’s degree in nursing, a specialized certification that would bump my salary up fifteen thousand dollars a year.
I moved that money into our general account.
“Just until I’m through first year,” Trevor said. “Then I’ll get a part-time job, something flexible. I’ll help out more.”
He didn’t get a part-time job.
Second year was “even more demanding,” he explained.
Third year, he had clinical rotations.
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