Losing Clara

Clara's phone buzzed against the desk while she was mid-sentence in her notes. Unknown number. She almost ignored it. Almost. Then a second buzz came, and something made her pick it up. Hey, Clara. It's been a long time. Her pen froze over the page. She hadn't heard from Patrick in years. Not since church youth camp, not since the group chat went quiet, not since life pulled them in different directions and she'd stopped expecting to hear from him at all. And yet one line from an unsaved number was enough to make her heart do something she didn't have a name for. Who gave him my number? She didn't type that. Instead, her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed something, deleted it, typed again, then finally settled on: Hey, Patrick. It really has been a long time. She hit send before she could think better of it, then sat staring at the three dots that told her he was already typing back. Just a few hours earlier, she'd woken up thinking today would be just like every other day. She'd been wrong. Clara's alarm had gone off three times before she finally silenced it and sat up. She was already running late — she could tell by the light coming through the blinds and by the fact that her roommate across the room groaned and pulled a blanket over her head instead of getting up. "You're finished today," Clara muttered to herself, swinging her legs out of bed. The dorm was already alive with the usual morning chaos — someone hunting for a missing shoe, someone else complaining that the shower was taken. Clara showered fast, dressed in her scrubs, and grabbed her bag. On her way out, her eyes caught the small Bible sitting beside her books. She was already late. She grabbed it anyway, then sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, head bowed, voice quiet under the noise around her. "Lord, thank You for another day. Help me understand everything I'm taught today, help me stay focused, and please — don't let me disappoint my parents." She paused, then smiled a little. "And help me become the nurse I've always wanted to be." That was Clara. Even when she was rushing, she made time for God. She'd grown up in a Christian home in Chicago, where Sunday mornings meant church and her parents reminded her constantly that an education was the one thing nobody could ever take from her. Her family wasn't wealthy — they were middle-class, and every sacrifice they made for her schooling meant something to her. She'd started nursing school in 2023, and though the workload some days felt impossible, she never let herself forget why she'd started: a career, independence, a chance to make her parents proud, and to become someone she could be proud of too. By the time she reached the lecture hall, breathless, Susan was already in her seat. "You're late." "Good morning to you too," Clara said, dropping into the chair beside her. Susan grinned. "I was just admiring your ability to arrive late with confidence." "Please leave me." They'd been best friends for years — through school stress, family drama, every secret worth keeping and most that weren't. Susan knew Clara well. Sometimes too well. "Did you pray?" Susan asked. "Yes." "Before or after you nearly missed your class?" "Before." Susan laughed. "At least God heard you." The professor walked in, and the room quieted. Clara opened her notebook, and for a while, life was simple. School. Family. Church. God. Her dreams. She had no idea that one message was about to disturb the balance she'd worked so hard to build. It was Susan who brought it up, leaning close halfway through the lecture. "Clara. Do you remember Patrick?" Clara's pen stopped. "Patrick who?" "Don't do that. You know exactly who I mean." It clicked a second later — church, youth group, the boy who could talk to anyone without it ever feeling awkward. They'd never been especially close, but they'd known each other for years, back when Sunday afternoons meant youth programs, and everyone stayed after service to talk. "I remember him," Clara said carefully. "I heard he's back. Around Chicago." Clara went quiet. Patrick. A name she hadn't thought about in a long time, and now, somehow, it wouldn't leave the back of her mind for the rest of the lecture. "Apparently he's changed," Susan added. "Doing well for himself, from what I heard." "Good for him," Clara said, and went back to her notes — though for some reason, she couldn't concentrate as easily as before. She glanced down at her phone sitting beside her notebook. The three dots were still there. Patrick was typing. She had no idea what he was about to say.