The Love Affair You Never Asked For

She creeps into your life slowly, with the subtlety of a heartbeat—so steady, so constant, that at first, you barely notice. At orientation, she feels like a distant acquaintance, someone you've met in passing but haven't taken the time to understand. Medicine, she calls herself. A name as old as memory, carrying the weight of history, lives saved, and souls soothed. She stands at the edge of your mind, patient, waiting for you to step closer, to let her in.

In the beginning, she’s full of promises. She tells you she’ll give you meaning, carve purpose into the contours of your days. She’ll teach you how to listen—really listen—to the hum of suffering beneath the words of strangers. She’ll show you the miracle of a heart fluttering back to rhythm under your hands, the dance of life teetering on the edge of death, and the strange, quiet satisfaction that follows when the scales tip toward survival. She assures you that if you surrender to her, she’ll make you someone better than you are now.

But her promises come at a price.

She’s always there, her presence woven into the fabric of your existence. She’s in your coat pocket in the form of crumpled handover notes, and in the pages of your mind when you’re trying to fall asleep but can’t stop second-guessing that insulin dose you ordered. Her voice is soft but insistent in the silence of your call nights, reminding you of labs to follow up on and decisions you must make. Sometimes, she wakes you up before your alarm, whispering cases in your ear, haunting you with questions left unanswered.

You don’t know how it happened, but she’s everywhere now—your constant companion, your secret lover. You find yourself muttering her language over dinner with friends, charting imaginary labs in your head when you should be listening to conversations. You check your phone compulsively, not for messages from loved ones, but for updates about patients you might never see again. She’s clingy, relentless, a demanding lover who occupies every thought, every breath, and every plan you make for the future.

And the strangest thing? She loves you. She really loves you.

She clings to you in a way that feels both tender and suffocating, offering you the thrill of importance with every consult, every code, every patient encounter. She makes you feel indispensable, like the world might unravel if you were to step away. You catch glimpses of her affection when a patient thanks you with tears in their eyes, or when a attending nods approvingly at your treatment plan. She’s possessive, too—disapproving of the nights you take off, and jealous of the weekends you try to spend away from her. Medicine demands fidelity, and she doesn’t take kindly to sharing your heart with anything or anyone else.

And yet, you’re not sure you love her back.

There are moments you convince yourself that you do. Those nights when you stabilize a crashing patient feel intoxicating, and for a brief second, you see yourself as the person she promised you’d become—someone who makes a difference. But those highs are fleeting, and the comedowns are long. The hours stretch on endlessly, and your relationships with the outside world slowly unravel. Friends stop calling, family gatherings become foreign, and the things that used to light your soul on fire feel distant, like memories from another lifetime.

You wonder what life would look like without her, and the thought scares you. She’s been with you for so long now that imagining your days without her feels impossible. Would you even recognize yourself without her constant demands? Who are you, after all, if not the resident juggling admissions, planning discharges, and navigating the labyrinth of disease? Her love has become so entangled with your identity that you fear stepping away would leave you empty, a hollow shell of the person you used to be.

But deep down, you know that love—real love—shouldn't feel like this.

There are moments when you catch yourself dreaming of freedom, of weekends spent without pages vibrating in your pocket and sunsets enjoyed without checking the time. You imagine waking up and not thinking about patient lists or pager batteries, just opening your eyes to the simple beauty of an unstructured day. But then the thought dissolves, and she pulls you back into her orbit.

She doesn’t ask for much in return—just everything. Your time, your energy, your dreams. She wants it all, and for now, you give it. You tell yourself this is just a phase, that one day, things will change, and maybe you’ll find a way to love her the way she loves you. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe this relationship will always be one-sided, leaving you with the bittersweet ache of a love that never quite fits.

But tonight, she’s waiting for you at the hospital, her arms open wide and her gaze unwavering. She doesn’t care that you’re tired. She doesn’t mind that your mind drifts to the life you could have had without her. All she cares about is that you show up, scrub in, and let her take your hand once more.

And so, you do. Because in this tangled love story with Medicine, there are no easy endings. Just nights that bleed into mornings, questions that lead to more questions, and a heart that beats on, unsure whether it’s in love or simply resigned to the rhythm she’s set.

You show up because that’s what she asks of you. For now, that’s all you know how to do.