If I Were Her

Chapter 9

The engine hummed quietly as Thomas adjusted the rearview mirror for the third time, as if the act alone could line up the day perfectly.

“First-day tradition,” he said, voice casual, almost cheerful. “Every year. Every term. You know the drill.”

Iris blinked. She did not. First day. First day ever. College was supposed to feel unfamiliar, exciting, frightening in ways she had memorized only in theory. Yet Thomas spoke as if she had been here before, as if she knew the rhythm of this ritual already. She nodded anyway. Nod. Smile. Accept. Tradition, even when it belonged entirely to someone else.

Vivian appeared in the passenger seat with a tote bag that looked ready for a week-long expedition rather than a short ride to campus. Snacks, notebooks, a neatly folded cardigan for every hour of the day, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and—she always included this—spare socks. Always socks. Iris glanced down at the seat next to her and resisted the urge to recoil. Everything was excessive, but that excess was love, or something like it.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” Vivian said, her voice soft, almost trembling with anticipation. “And snacks. You’ll need snacks. Always bring snacks.”

Iris nodded again, storing her silence like a shield. Tradition. Rules. Safety. All bundled into a suburban-sized tote bag she didn’t need but couldn’t refuse.

Thomas started the car and pulled slowly into the driveway, about to follow the familiar bends of the quiet road heading to the gate. His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, a rhythm that felt like control disguised as habit. “Just like always,” he said. “Drop-offs are meant to be calm. Predictable. You’ll get out, walk through, settle in. Nothing to worry about.”

Iris’s stomach twisted. She was ready to breathe, to let herself imagine the day without checkpoints. And then—

A screech of tires and the sharp slap of a suitcase hitting the asphalt made her start.

Ava barreled out of the house, two impossibly heavy suitcases dragging behind her, her backpack slung crooked across one shoulder. Her hair stuck to her forehead from the rush. Shoes untied. Lip curled in a mix of fury and disbelief.

“You forgot me!” Ava shouted, voice high and strained, nearly a shout at the quiet air. “You completely forgot me!”

Thomas’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I didn’t forget—”

“You did!” Ava cut him off, swinging one suitcase with a grunt, nearly toppling it over. “You promised I’d get a day! Sunday was mine! I needed Sunday to unpack, to—”

“You were going today,” Thomas said firmly. “We go together. Logistics. It’s simpler this way.”

“Simpler for who?” Ava snapped, dragging herself to the passenger side and collapsing into the seat, one suitcase wedged awkwardly against her knees. She glared at Iris as if the very act of existing had made her late. “I’ve been waiting an extra day because of you. And now—now you’re taking my time..” she heaved turning to face her father

“my day, because of her?”

Iris’s throat tightened. Her hands pressed into her lap. The guilt rose immediately, fierce and hot. She hadn’t remembered. She hadn’t thought. She had assumed Ava was already here, already ready, already part of the plan. She had only thought about her own departure, her own schedules, her own survival. And now her presence—her mundane, logistical presence—had collided with her sister’s life, with Ava’s carefully held plans.

“I… I didn’t—” Iris began, but the words felt useless, spilling out in soft half-apologies.

“You didn’t what?” Ava’s eyes were wide, incredulous, a storm contained in disbelief. “Remember me? Remember that I exist in the world outside your schedule? You just—walked out and left me behind? Again?”

Vivian reached across the car to squeeze Iris’s shoulder, gentle but unhelpful. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart,” she said softly. But Iris felt no comfort in the words. Comfort had always been about safety, about rules. This—this was disruption, collision, intrusion.

Iris bit the inside of her cheek, keeping her voice level. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. Her gaze flicked to the dashboard, the cup holders, the way Thomas’s hands gripped the wheel a little too tight. She could feel the tension radiating from every angle, and the weight of her sister’s anger pressed down on her chest.

Ava huffed and shifted in her seat, the suitcases tilting dangerously before she righted them with another grunt. “You just… you don’t think,” she muttered, voice low now but sharp enough to sting. “Everything has to be about timing, rules, schedules… and I’m the one who gets crushed in the middle.”

Iris swallowed. She knew that feeling. She lived in it every day. Every step out of line, every moment that wasn’t hers, every intrusion she caused without meaning to—it all landed somewhere else. And today, it was Ava.

Thomas sighed, finally releasing the tension in his shoulders. “Look, we’re already late. Let’s go. We’ll get there. You’ll unpack. You’ll settle. You’ll have time. It’ll be fine.”

Ava groaned but didn’t argue further. She leaned back against the seat, eyes narrowed, one hand gripping the handle of her suitcase as if bracing herself.

Iris kept her gaze low, tracing the pattern of sunlight on the dashboard, the ridges of the steering wheel. She felt every inch of the collision of schedules, the compression of two lives into one car, the sharp reminder that just existing could displace someone else. And she wondered, silently, if this guilt would ever let her ride without trembling.

…………………

The campus sprawled before them, unfamiliar and daunting, a grid of paths and buildings that felt bigger than she had imagined, bigger than she had feared. Iris’s stomach twisted again—not from guilt this time, but from the sheer scale of it all. She kept her eyes low as Thomas parked near the main entrance, as if proximity alone could make the newness more manageable.

“Okay,” he said, smoothing his hands over the steering wheel. “You’ve got your schedule, right? Maps? Directions?”

“I… yes,” Iris said. The words sounded smaller than she felt.

Thomas lingered, opening the door for her and gesturing toward the walkway . “Just remember to text when you get to your furst class. Lunch break. Lab orientation.”

She nodded. She always nodded. Resistance seemed heavier than compliance, like carrying a suitcase she didn’t want.

They walked together longer than necessary, past buildings whose names she’d memorized from online maps, through lawns she had pictured but never seen. Thomas’s finger traced imaginary routes on her schedule, asking her to repeat times, rooms, and professor names aloud. Iris complied. Her voice was quiet, measured—an offering, a shield.

Finally, he let her go.

The moment Thomas turned back toward the car, Iris felt the space open around her, empty and too large. The campus smelled of cut grass and something metallic—linoleum, maybe, from the buildings nearby, or something she would learn to associate with antiseptic and procedure. Every sound seemed amplified: sneakers scuffing along the pavement, the flutter of papers through open doors, the low hum of a distant HVAC unit. She walked slowly, letting her body take in the details she had only seen in maps and diagrams.

The building for medical courses loomed ahead. Concrete and glass, utilitarian and careful, like it had been designed for function over warmth. She stepped inside and immediately felt it

The fluorescent glare, the hum of computers booting up, the faint scent of hand sanitizer. The reception desk was polished to a reflective shine, papers stacked neatly in color-coded piles.

She took a deep breath and walked into the classroom where her first class of the day held

A group of students clustered near the sign-in table. Some were chatting in low, hurried tones, others staring at phones or schedules, counting down invisible moments to something uncertain. Iris hung back, noticing: one girl tapping a pen against her notebook, brow furrowed; a boy shifting weight from one foot to another, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. Anxiety, rehearsed and raw, and already she cataloged it.

“Second year ?” a voice called, clipped, professional. A professor, probably. Mid-thirties, white coat slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look at Iris individually but gestured to the sign-in sheets, clipboard tapping lightly against her palm. “Take a seat anywhere. We’ll start with a quick review—vital signs, patient assessment basics. Second year, yes, but everyone benefits from a refresher.”

Iris slid into a chair at the edge of the semicircle, notebook open, pen poised. The hum of fluorescent lights and murmured greetings filled the space, but she let it wash over her instead of fighting it.

The girl next to her smiled, leaning slightly in her direction. “Hi… first day?” she asked quietly. “I’m Marissa. I’ve been in this lab before, but it’s kind of chaotic the first week, right?”

Iris nodded. “Yeah… I guess so.” Her voice was quiet, careful.

Marissa laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry—you’ll figure it out. They throw a lot at you the first day, but it gets easier.”

Iris allowed herself a faint smile. Conversation like this—low-stakes, ordinary—felt grounding. She noticed the slight tremor in Marissa’s fingers as she adjusted her notebook, the nervous tap of a pen against the table edge. Normal first-day jitters, nothing more.

The professor stepped forward. “All right. Let’s start simple. Take your pulse, temperature, respirations. Let’s talk signs of distress, when to escalate, when to act.” She moved around the room, voice steady, gestures precise. “Remember, accuracy is important, observation is equally critical.”

Iris followed along, scribbling notes, letting the rhythm of instruction settle her mind. Students glanced around for cues, whispered numbers under their breath, trying to match theory to the imaginary patient. It was orderly, procedural, structured—and she fit without needing to adapt beyond herself.

At the edge of her vision, someone passed through the hallway outside the classroom doors. He moved with casual ease, carrying a stack of papers.

Ethan

She didn’t look up fully. Didn’t linger. But for a moment, she noticed the angle of his shoulders, the pace of his steps. Nothing more than awareness. No fluttering heart, no magnetic pull. Just recognition: he existed nearby, part of this same campus world, just out of reach.

The professor’s voice pulled her back. “And remember—temperature, pulse, respirations, all within expected ranges. But what about context? A young adult, anxious, mid-activity? How do vital signs shift?”

Iris raised her hand. “Compare baseline to expected activity. Look for deviations that could indicate stress or early deterioration.”

“Exactly,” the professor said, nodding. “Observation paired with knowledge. Never ignore small changes—they’re often the first signal something’s off.”

By the time the review wrapped up, Iris felt a quiet satisfaction, she didn’t remember to text her parents