The water still clung to her skin, steam trailing behind her as she stepped out of the small bathroom in her room at the doctors' hostel. A clean towel hung loosely around her shoulders, her usual oversized tee falling just past her thighs. Hair damp, breath slow.
But her mind?
Restless.
Jane moved like she was on autopilot—slipping her feet into socks, brushing away condensation from her mirror, tossing her towel onto the chair.
She poured herself a cup of coffee from her thermos flask and curled up on the edge of her bed, letting the hot liquid ground her.
But it didn't work.
She sipped again.
Still didn't work.
Josephine.
That face wouldn't leave her mind. The kind of beauty that didn't feel real. But it wasn't just looks—it was something else. A pull. An energy. An unfamiliar ache that sat somewhere between curiosity and…
No. She couldn't name it. Not yet.
Her phone vibrated.
Mum calling…
She hesitated. Then answered.
"Hi, Ma."
"Jane. It's been days. You don't call anymore."
"I've been working, Ma. You know I'm posted at the hospital now."
A pause.
Then her mother's voice softened, but not in the comforting way—more like the way thunder softens before a storm.
"Your Auntie Mary came to the house yesterday."
Jane's grip tightened on the cup.
"Okay…?"
"She thinks she's found someone for you."
There it was.
Jane's eyes narrowed. "Tell her I'm not marrying anyone's son."
"He's a nice person, Jane," her mum said gently. "A family friend. Responsible. Owns property in both Accra and Kumasi. He's… capable."
Jane set the coffee down and stood.
"He's not for me. I've already told you—I'm not interested in marriage."
Her mum sighed. "You've said that. But things are different now. You just started working. You're not being paid yet. Things are hard. I see it on your siblings' faces. You need help."
"I need space. Not a husband."
Another pause. "You're the first child. Everyone is looking at you. You know the landlord is increasing our rent. The light bill keeps going up. And you... you're not even getting your salary yet. What's wrong with accepting help?"
"Because I'm not a burden solution, Mum," Jane said quietly. "And marrying for money? That's not help. That's surrender."
Her mother didn't respond right away.
Then: "Just… think about it. At least talk to him."
"I won't," Jane whispered. "I'm not marrying anyone's son. Not now. Not ever."
She ended the call before she could be swayed by guilt.
The silence afterward was loud.
Jane sat back on the bed, hands in her lap. The truth was, she was struggling. Rent was overdue. The stress was pressing in from all sides.
But even then—she'd rather face all of that a hundred times over than sell herself into a life she didn't want.
Her eyes drifted to her phone screen.
She opened her photos.
There it was.
Josephine, asleep.
And for the first time that day, Jane smiled.
A genuine, soft curve of her lips that felt foreign, yet right.
Who was this woman? This patient in Room 9 who had somehow lodged herself so deeply in Jane's mind?
Josephine Yeboah-Davis.
The name had a familiar ring, a faint echo from news snippets or society pages she usually skimmed over.
Was she the president's daughter? A minister's? Some influential CEO's only child, sheltered and known only by whispers?
The VIP room wasn't just for anyone. It was for someone.
Jane knew she shouldn't. This was unprofessional, a blatant breach of everything she stood for. But a powerful curiosity, sharper than any surgical scalpel, urged her on. Her thumb hovered over the search bar.
She typed the name slowly into Instagram.
The results loaded instantly.
Just as her eyes landed on the screen, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
Not a text, but a persistent call. She swore under her breath, the moment of pure, illicit discovery shattering.
Julia calling...
She sighed, pressing "answer." "Hey, Julia. What's up?"
"Girl! You won't believe it. Cynthia is in town!" Julia's voice, bright and full of energy, immediately filled the small room, pulling Jane away from the glowing screen.
"Cynthia?" Jane repeated, her mind still halfway on Josephine. "When did she get back?" Cynthia was their third musketeer, rarely in Ghana for long.
"Last night! She literally just called me. So, weekend get-together. Our usual spot. You in or what?" Julia rattled off, already planning. "We haven't properly caught up in ages. We need to hear all about this doctor's life you're living."
Jane glanced back at her phone screen, the search results waiting, tantalizingly unread. Later, she promised herself. The two women on the other end of the line were her anchors, her reality checks. They knew the real Jane, the one who navigated life without a script.
"Yeah, okay," Jane said, a small smile finally reaching her voice that wasn't about a mysterious patient. "Text me the details. I'll make it work."
"Perfect! See you then, doc!" Julia chirped, hanging up.
Jane lowered her phone, the screen now dark. The urgency to find out about Josephine still pulsed, but the interruption had provided a welcome distraction, a reminder of her other life, her other self. Still, as she set the phone down, her gaze lingered on the last opened app. The internet never forgot. And neither, it seemed, would she.