Chapter 6
1569 Words
“I’m so bombarded with work. Assignments for this, readings for that, quizzes I’m not even mentally prepared for—fuuuuccckkk.” I screamed internally, because if I actually screamed in the café, I’d probably get banned.
At this point, I genuinely want to switch courses. Like, shift-and-never-look-back kind of switch.
But I can’t.
So I move forward. I open my readings because tomorrow—well, technically later—we’ll have recitation. We always have recitation.
Third year nursing isn’t for the weak. Especially not when Medical-Surgical Nursing decides to exist.
Cardiovascular disorders. Pathophysiology. d**g mechanisms. Complications. My brain feels like it’s being sautéed.
After this, I still have to finish assignments for Psychiatric Nursing. Because apparently understanding your own mental breakdown isn’t enough... you also have to understand everyone else’s.
I’ve been here at this café for eight hours. Eight. Whole. Hours. It’s near our house, and I forced myself to study here because if I went home, I’d end up “resting my eyes” and waking up three hours later with drool on my pillow and zero progress.
I didn’t even notice how much time had passed until someone suddenly placed a plate of Alfredo pasta in front of me.
“I didn’t order that. Please leave.” I muttered without looking up, eyes still glued to my notes.
“I know,” he said casually. “Because I did.”
Maxwell.
Of course.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, flipping a page aggressively. “I just need to finish this first, then I’ll eat.”
He pulled a chair and sat across from me like he owned the place.
“I have reviewers for that subject,” he said calmly. “And for the other one you’re drowning in.”
My head snapped up so fast I almost got whiplash.
Right.
Why didn’t I remember that he’s a fourth-year? Why didn’t I remember that he survived this academic war already?
“Please, can I hav—”
He raised a hand, cutting me off. “Eat first. And I promise I’ll give them to you after.”
I stared at him. At the pasta. At my 78 open tabs worth of suffering.
A while ago, everything felt heavy. Like I was carrying every textbook in the library on my chest. But somehow, with one plate of pasta and one annoyingly calm senior sitting across from me, the weight didn’t feel as crushing.
I sighed dramatically but grabbed the fork.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But if I fail tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
He smirked. “You won’t.”
And for the first time in eight hours, I felt like maybe, just maybe... I won’t.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked, still twirling the pasta like I hadn’t just declared war against it ten minutes ago.
“I didn’t,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“I saw this café on t****k and thought I should try it. Then I walked in and saw you looking like you’re carrying all the problems of the world.” He made an exaggerated hand gesture around my pile of books.
“Very dramatic. Very main character.”
I laughed. “Excuse me, I’m academically stressed. There’s a difference.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed. “Hungry and tired. Classic combo.”
“I can rest when there’s an ‘RN’ after my name,” I smirked at him.
He leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes. Delayed gratification. Very good coping mechanism. But overworking yourself? That’s not.”
“Oh, now you’re psychoanalyzing me?”
“Psychiatric Nursing, remember?” he said, pointing at my open notes. “Let’s review since you’re already spiraling.”
I narrowed my eyes but listened anyway.
“So,” he continued, suddenly switching to his serious-kuya voice, “what’s one therapeutic communication technique you should use?”
“Active listening?” I answered.
“Good. And what am I doing right now?”
“Annoying me?”
He laughed. “No. I’m observing. You’re showing signs of stress overload—irritability, catastrophizing, dramatic internal monologues.”
“I do not catastrophize.”
“You said awhile ago that you wanted to shift courses because of one recitation.”
“...'Kay, maybe a little.”
He grinned. “See? Cognitive distortion. Specifically, all-or-nothing thinking.”
I pointed my fork at him. “Why do I feel attacked?”
“Because I’m correct.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. He reached over and gently closed one of my books.
“You know,” he said softer now,
“rest is not weakness. Even psych patients are encouraged to balance activity and recovery. You can’t take care of other people’s mental health if you’re neglecting yours.”
His tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was calm. Steady. The kind that makes you feel safe without realizing it.
“You’ll get that RN,” he continued. “But you don’t have to suffer every second to prove you deserve it.”
For a moment, I forgot about cardiovascular disorders. Forgot about care plans and d**g computations. All I could think about was how he remembered my subjects. How he brought food. How he sat there teaching me like my stress actually mattered.
My chest felt... little weird?
Not anxiety-weird.
Like soft-weird.
Or a dangerous-weird maybe?
He flicked my forehead lightly. “Where did you go? Dissociating?”
“I am not dissociating!” I protested, a little too fast.
He raised an eyebrow. “Denial. Another defense mechanism.”
I laughed again, but quieter this time.
And somewhere between Alfredo pasta, cognitive distortions, and his stupidly gentle teaching voice, I realized something terrifying.
I’m not just academically stressed.
I’m falling for him.
And that might be the scariest diagnosis of all.
After a few more hours, I finally decided to go home. Not because I was tired — no. I was perfectly fine.
It was just that this man, who is supposedly a fourth-year nursing student drowning in responsibilities, seemed suspiciously... unbusy.
“Are you not busy?” I asked while fixing my things, trying to sound casual and not like I’d been hyper-aware of his presence for the past hour.
“Nope. Already done.” He said it like finishing requirements was as easy as breathin.
And before I could react, he was already helping me pack my notes neatly into my bag.
Show off.
“I’ll go ahead,” I said, about to escape before my heart embarrasses me.
“I’ll accompany you. Just to make sure you get home safely.”
And there it was.
My heart suddenly decided to train for the Olympics.
I didn’t protest. Not because I wanted him to come… but because the strap of my bag was already hanging on his shoulder.
“Jeez,” I murmured under my breath.
He just smiled like he didn’t hear anything.
We started walking side by side. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough space for my brain to overthink every step.
“How are you?” I asked, pretending the night air wasn’t making everything feel softer than usual.
“Good,” he answered shortly.
Straight to the point. Classic him.
“How is she?” I asked carefully.
His expression shifted just a little more softer.
“Still the same. But like you said… I need to be strong for her.”
He looked at me when he said that.
And my heart?
It malfunctioned.
Like, excuse me. Why are you looking at me like that? I am not built for emotional eye contact.
Why does my heart keep beating so freakishly fast? Is this normal? Should I consult a cardiologist? Am I dying? If I pass out right now, this will be so embarrassing..
“Uhmm… we’re here,” I said when we reached my gate, trying to act like my soul wasn’t currently doing somersaults.
I reached for my bag. He handed it to me, fingers brushing mine for half a second too long.
“Uhmm… thank you,” I said, suddenly very interested in the ground.
“No problem. Good luck tomorrow.”
And then
He lightly flicked my forehead instead.
“Overthinking again?” he said, shaking his head like an older brother who just caught me doing something silly.
Excuse me???
He adjusted the strap of my bag properly on my shoulder, neat, secure, responsible.
“Go inside. It’s late,” he added, voice softer this time. Not teasing. Just... Gentle.
Older brother vibes. Protective. Calm. Stable.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because instead of my heart exploding dramatically like before, it melted...
Completely.
He gave me a small nod, the kind that says I’ve got you without actually saying it.
“Message me when you’re inside.”
And then he turned around and walked away like he didn’t just rearrange my entire emotional stability.
I stood there for a few seconds, staring at his back.
Dumbfounded.
Why is he like that?
Why is he so naturally caring?
Why does that simple “Go inside” feel more romantic than any love confession?
I went inside the house quietly, touching the spot on my forehead where he flicked me.
Not because it hurt.
But because somehow...
It felt like home.
and I know this is dangerous...
- Writer
