(Clara)
By Friday evening, my brain felt like overcooked pasta.
That was the only way I could describe it.
The week had been brutal; endless lectures, anatomy practicals, assignments that somehow multiplied overnight and enough caffeine in my bloodstream to legally qualify me as a chemical experiment.
At this point, I was surviving purely out of spite.
“You look dead,” Anna said from the kitchen as I dragged myself into the apartment.
“Thank you,” I muttered, dropping my bag dramatically onto the couch. “That’s exactly the reassurance I needed.”
She laughed, walking over with a bowl of popcorn in hand. “Med school is chewing your ass up already.”
“It’s not chewing,” I corrected weakly. “It’s swallowing me whole.”
“Good,” she said unapologetically. “Means you’re actually trying.”
