Talia Quinn didn't cry.
Not on the sidewalk in front of the biochem building.
Not in the silence of her tiny off-campus apartment.
Not even in the bathroom at 3 a.m. when the tequila and self-loathing clawed at her throat like punishment.
Instead, she shut everything down.
Her phone—muted.
Her music—louder.
Her walls—higher.
By Wednesday, she was already back at the parties, floating between laughter and liquor like nothing had ever happened. People asked about the boy with the glasses.
She told them he got boring.
In class, Ezra was as predictable as ever.
Perfect attendance. Perfect notes. Perfect silence.
He didn't look at her. Not once.
And somehow, that hurt more than the ghosting. It was like he'd erased her, as cleanly as he wiped fingerprints off his tablet screen.
Fine.
She didn't need him.
She didn't need anyone.
The universe, however, had a wicked sense of humor.
"Alright," said Dr. Kamara during Thursday's lab session, holding a clipboard and looking far too enthusiastic for someone about to assign them three weeks of partner work. "We're starting our diagnostic simulation today. You'll be working in pairs. Names are already randomized."
Talia glanced up from her desk, annoyed. She hated assigned groups. Hated trusting people who'd let her down. She prayed for someone quiet, someone who wouldn't try to control everything—
"Quinn and Lane."
The words hit like a slap.
She blinked. "What?"
Dr. Kamara didn't flinch. "Talia Quinn and Ezra Lane. Table 4. You two will be working together through the clinical case simulations."
Ezra froze.
Talia gritted her teeth.
Across the room, he finally, finally looked at her.
His expression was unreadable. But his eyes—they carried weight. Heavy, like he hadn't slept. Heavy, like he was sorry but didn't have the words.
Talia didn't wait for him.
She walked to Table 4 and took the left stool.
He joined her a few seconds later.
The silence stretched between them like a scalpel—sharp, precise, painful.
Their assignment was straightforward: assess a fictional patient, run diagnostics, and create a treatment plan together. Straightforward, except for the part where neither of them could speak without the air turning too thick to breathe.
"I'll handle the case notes," Ezra said quietly.
Talia didn't look at him. "Fine. I'll do vitals."
They moved like strangers—coordinated, efficient, emotionally amputated.
He typed. She read. Neither looked up.
By the end of the hour, they'd collected half the required data without a single unnecessary word.
It was… clinical.
But underneath her focus, a storm brewed.
She could smell his cologne—subtle, clean, like eucalyptus and endings.
She remembered the way he used to trace diagrams on her wrist with his finger,on her shoes.
The way he'd laugh when she insulted the textbook authors.
The way he'd whisper, "You terrify me, and I think that's why I'm falling in love with you."
She slammed her pen down harder than necessary.
Ezra flinched.
"Something wrong?" he asked, voice low.
Talia's lips twisted. "Just remembering I used to like this class."
He opened his mouth to reply—but stopped. Said nothing.
Of course.
Later that night, she sat on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by textbooks she didn't care about and an unfinished text she wouldn't send:
You ghosted me. After everything. Why?
She deleted it.
Then she retyped it.
Then deleted it again.
Instead, she opened Instagram, scrolled, liked a photo of some random guy's dog just to distract herself, and tried not to imagine what Ezra was doing. If he was thinking about her. If he hated her. If he remembered the kiss in the rain or the night they fell asleep with a textbook between them and his hand curled in hers like a promise.
But what promise? He'd already broken it.
Maybe she had, too.
The next lab session was worse.
Their patient was fictional, but the tension was very real.
They had to simulate breaking bad news to a pretend family member. Talia volunteered to speak, mostly to avoid Ezra's gaze. Her voice was steady, almost too steady, like she was performing. Which she was.
He watched her the entire time.
And when the simulation ended, he said quietly, "You're good at pretending things don't hurt."
She turned to him, surprised. "And you're good at pretending you didn't disappear without a word."
His jaw tightened. "You kissed someone else."
"You didn't show up."
"I had a family emergency."
The air went still.
"What?" she whispered, the wind knocked from her.
Ezra's eyes didn't blink. "My sister called. My dad collapsed. I spent the night in the ER."
Talia's heart dropped.
No jokes came. No sarcasm. Just guilt, thick and bitter.
"I didn't know," she said quietly.
"You didn't ask," he replied, softer than before. "You just sent a goodbye."
She looked down. Her nails were painted black this week. Chipped already.
He continued, "I'm not mad about the kiss. I get it. You thought I bailed. But… you never gave me a chance to explain."
She bit her lip. "I didn't know how."
Ezra gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I figured."
When class ended, she didn't rush out this time.
Instead, she walked beside him in silence until they reached the courtyard.
"I'm not good at this," she admitted. "Feelings. Waiting. Believing people won't leave."
"I'm not good at knowing what to say when everything's falling apart," he said, looking at her.
She nodded. "We're a mess."
He smiled a little. "A well-documented, symptomatically sound mess."
She laughed—quietly. Her first real laugh in days.
"Want to come over?" she asked suddenly, eyes daring.
Ezra hesitated.
"Just to finish the case," she added, smirking. "And maybe help me pronounce half these meds without sounding like a drunk goat."
He chuckled. "Only if you promise not to throw a pen at me this time."
"No promises," she said, turning away but not walking fast. Waiting for him to catch up.
He did.
And though nothing was fixed, though their hearts were still bruised and their story still tangled, they walked away together this time.
It wasn't a happily ever after.
But maybe—just maybe—it was a second beginning.