YOU ARE MY LIGHT

The first time I understood what love could do to a person, it didn’t save my mother. It destroyed her. I didn’t know that yet when I stood outside Skylike Medical Center, internship file clenched so tightly my fingers ached. The building loomed in glass and steel under the early sun. Lives were saved here every day. Mine was about to unravel in ways I couldn’t imagine. The faint scent of last night’s rain mixed with antiseptic drifting from the doors. I tried to breathe through the flutter in my chest, but memories clung tighter than I wanted. I never had the kind of love people celebrated in stories. My childhood home carried heavy silences broken by sudden storms. My father’s anger filled rooms long after he left them. My mother never raised her voice in return. She endured everything with that eerie calm — the kind that came from giving up hope. One night when I was six, thunder cracked outside while his shouting shook the walls. I hid under my blanket, peeking through a gap as he hurled a glass. It struck her shoulder with a sharp c***k. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. She simply stood there as a thin line of blood trickled down her arm, soaking into her sleeve. Her face stayed perfectly still, like pain was something she had already accepted. The next morning she forced smiles at the stove, sliding plates in front of us as if the glass — and the blood — had never existed. I absorbed it all: the thick tension, the fear knotting my stomach, the sadness that lingered without words. That’s when the lesson burned into me: love didn’t protect. It wounded. So I started protecting myself. Quietly. Brick by careful brick, I raised barriers no one was allowed to scale. Kindness felt like a trap. Sweet words carried hidden expiration dates. Distance became my only real safety. Late at night I’d still lose myself in romantic dramas, tears falling as couples fought for their happy endings. Fiction made love look healing. Possible. Real life asked for risks I refused to take. Screens never abandoned you the way people could. That was exactly why I’d chosen this internship at Skylike — the controlled chaos of a massive hospital. Long shifts, endless tasks, constant emergencies. I told myself the busyness would leave no room for feelings to sneak in. No space for anyone to test the defenses I’d spent years building. But walls only work until life decides otherwise. “Next!” The receptionist’s sharp call yanked me back. My feet moved on autopilot through the sliding doors. Inside, the air turned colder, sharper. Antiseptic stung my nose, undercut by the bitter warmth of coffee from the cafeteria. Overhead lights hummed faintly. A pager beeped somewhere down the hall, followed by a crackling announcement I couldn’t make out. Doctors in white coats strode past with purpose. Nurses hurried between stations. Patients waited with exhausted eyes. My pulse hammered against my ribs as I kept my head down, file clutched like armor, shoes squeaking on the polished floor. At the counter, the receptionist glanced up. “Internship orientation?” I nodded, voice smaller than I liked. “First day.” She offered a quick, professional smile and slid over a visitor badge. “Elevators left. Third floor. Don’t be late.” “Thank you,” I mumbled, cheeks warming. Just survive today. One step at a time. But as I turned toward the elevators, a quiet unease stirred deeper. The person who would change everything… was already inside.