Only when we shatter

Chapter 6: Orientation Day

Orientation definitely kept my mind from wandering back to Nate.

Well—mostly.

The day was a blur of PowerPoint slides, induction folders, security badge photos, and overly enthusiastic introductions from department heads. I nodded at all the right moments, took notes like I cared, and somehow managed to smile at the HR clerk when she handed me a badge that read Anaesthesia resident, like it meant something.

But underneath the performance, a strange hollowness tugged at my gut. That deep, unshakable knowing that something had been left unresolved. I hated how I hung up on Nate. I hated how his voice had cracked, how he didn’t fight me harder to stay on the line. But mostly, I hated how I didn’t know what else to say. It was easier to press end than to admit how deeply I missed him.

Still, work had a way of demanding focus.

By midday, I found myself clutching a cold prawn salad and scanning the room of fellow new residents, trying to locate a table where I wouldn’t have to overthink the shape of my smile. Aarti, one of the girls I met this morning, waved me over enthusiastically. She was already halfway through a conversation with Chuck and Mark, two tall, relaxed guys with matching lanyards and identical tired-overworked-resident eyes.

“Bella! Over here!” Aarti chirped, patting the seat next to her.

I offered a small smile and walked over towards their table.

Aarti was the kind of person whose presence announced itself before she even stepped into the room. Her joy clung to the air like a signature scent—radiant, contagious, and utterly unforgettable. With her jet-black hair swept into a sleek braid and a voice that always rang a little louder than the rest, she was impossible to miss.

In contrast, Chuck and Mark were a little more muted, each in their own way. Mark was wiry and pale with dark-framed glasses and a dry wit. Chuck had surfer hair and a low, easy drawl that made you instantly feel like you were in on the joke, even if you didn’t understand it yet.

“So, how’s your first half-day of being an anesthetist in Seattle?” Mark asked, cracking open a ginger ale.

“Still waiting for someone to tell me this is all a bureaucratic mistake,” I replied, stabbing my lettuce with more aggression than necessary.

Chuck grinned. “Nah, you belong here. Trust me. You’ve got that haunted look already.”

“Haunted?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing at his own face. “That dead-inside-but-still-politely-nodding expression. Classic first-year.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. It startled me. Had it really been that long since I laughed without thinking?

“So, Bella,” Aarti jumped in. “Where do you come from?”

“St. George’s,” I answered. “In Sydney.” I kept it short and sweet.

“Big move,” Chuck said, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not just a hospital transfer. That’s a full-on life upheaval.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Something like that.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that would’ve felt awkward with strangers—but somehow didn’t with them. Maybe it was the shared scrubs, or the way we all knew we’d see each other on three hours of sleep covered in blood and caffeine. Medical training doesn’t leave much room for pretense.

“Well, if you ever need restaurant recommendations, shopping or venting buddies,” Aarti said, nudging me with her shoulder, “We got you. Right, boys?”

“Hmmm... maybe not shopping and girly chit chats. But Beaker catch-ups? Absolutely. We are now officially your Seattle survival team,” Mark added, smiling.

“No backing out,” Chuck warned. “It’s a blood oath. Figuratively. Unless we’re in theatre.”

I smiled—genuinely this time. The heaviness in my chest didn’t vanish, but it loosened slightly. These people… maybe they were the beginning of something new. Something good.

After lunch, we were supposed to have our first hands-on airway training, but the Airway Fellow had been caught in a long trauma case. The departmental secretary swept in like a tornado with new instructions and assigned each of us to operating theaters instead.

“Good luck,” Aarti whispered, pretending to cross herself. “May the Force be with you.”

I ended up in the Burns theater with Dr. Hart, a senior consultant who looked like a grizzly bear and sounded like Morgan Freeman. His teaching style was old-school but encouraging. I inserted an IV, then intubated a middle-aged woman with third-degree scald burns over her chest. He let me handle the case, talking me through each step like I was more than just a rookie on my first day.

Then, to top it off, he handed me the ultrasound probe and let me scrub in to insert a CVC. I could barely believe it. A full triple lumen on day one.

I finished the day trembling from adrenaline and dehydration, but I couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was running from something. I was running toward something.

In the change room, I was gulping down water from the fountain when Aarti burst in like she had been guzzling espresso all afternoon.

“Heeeeyyyyyy!” she sang, practically dancing.

I turned. “Hi Aarti. How was your afternoon?”

“Incredible,” she gasped, tossing her bag onto the bench. “I walked into a trauma thoracotomy! Seventeen-year-old boy. Multiple stab wounds. They opened his chest, defibbed him like three times. I was elbow deep in transfusion bags.”

“Whoa.” My eyes widened. “Did he make it?”

Her face softened. “No. His heart and liver were both torn up. We did everything. Thirty-two units of blood. But it wasn’t enough.”

I nodded, feeling the gravity settle between us.

“But…” she added, grinning again, “… the fellow I worked with was amazing. So calm under pressure. Strong hands. And… gorgeous eyes.”

I chuckled. “Aarti, you are so transparent.”

“What? I have taste.”

“I don't deny that," I laughed. "Were you with the fellow who bailed on our airway session?”

“Yes! Isn’t fate funny?” She spun around, pulling on her jeans. “Chuck and Mark are going to the hospital bar. You’re coming. You need to hear everything.”

I shook my head. “I’m exhausted. I just want to eat toast in bed and pretend I’m not on a different continent.”

“One drink. That’s it.” She gave me puppy eyes. “He might be there. And also, Bella, you need people here. So start making friends. One beer. Maybe karaoke?”

“No. Definitely not karaoke,” I muttered, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Don’t be a grandma. Come. Chuck and Mark are already there. You can sit in a corner and judge everyone if you want.”

I groaned. “Fine. One drink. If it turns into karaoke, I’m ghosting.”

The hospital bar, The Beaker, was exactly what you'd expect: half dim-lit pub, half doctor gossip lounge. Chuck and Mark waved us over from a round booth already filled with a couple of residents from ICU and one hyperactive radiology registrar.

“Dr. Watson!” Mark called. “We saved you a seat—and a pint.”

I slid into the booth beside Aarti. Everyone clinked glasses and passed around bowls of seasoned nuts and beer-battered fries. The room buzzed with laughter, harmless flirting, and the occasional pager interrupting mid-sentence.

For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I didn’t feel like the girl who was running away.