Match Day arrived like a drumbeat beneath everyone's skin.
The atrium at the university's medical center buzzed with nerves—laughter that didn't reach eyes, pacing students gripping coffee cups with trembling fingers, the scent of stress and hope lingering in the air like rain.
Talia stood in the corner, her envelope pressed between her palms, Ezra beside her, his own envelope tucked under his arm. They hadn't opened them yet. Had promised they'd do it together.
"I might throw up," Talia muttered, her voice low.
"Too late," Ezra replied, holding up a crumpled napkin. "Nora already beat you to it behind the potted fern."
She gave him a look. "You're so calming."
Ezra's grin flickered. He wasn't calm either. His fingers twitched at his sides.
"We open on three?" he asked.
Talia stared at the white envelope like it might burn her hands. "What if we're in different cities?"
"Then we make it work."
"What if we fall apart?"
Ezra gently reached for her hand, curling his fingers around hers. "Then we build again. Just like we always have."
Her heart thudded.
"One... two..."
They opened their envelopes.
Silence.
Then—
"Harborview Medical, Seattle!" Talia blurted, reading out the words with a strange mix of disbelief and hope.
Ezra looked up, stunned. "No. Way."
"What?"
"Seattle. I matched at Seattle General."
Her mouth opened. Closed. "You're messing with me."
Ezra held out his letter, wide-eyed.
"Seattle," she whispered. "We're both—Seattle?"
A beat passed. Then two.
And then Talia flung herself into his arms, the letter fluttering to the floor like confetti.
They were laughing and crying and hugging, and it felt like something sacred had aligned in the universe just for them.
The celebration was short-lived.
That night, as they hosted friends in their tiny apartment—cheap wine, loud music, and joy barely contained—Talia noticed Ezra checking his phone, again and again, brows drawn.
"Something wrong?" she asked, pulling him aside.
Ezra hesitated. "My mom's missed my last three calls. She always picks up. Even when she's elbow-deep in gardening."
Talia frowned. "Want to try again?"
He nodded, stepping into the hallway.
He didn't come back for almost twenty minutes.
When he did, his face was pale, the kind of pale that erases years and leaves only the boy underneath.
"She's in the hospital," he said quietly. "Minor stroke. They think she'll be okay, but…"
Talia placed her hands on his cheeks. "Go."
"What?"
"Go to her, Ezra. Tonight."
"But we—our plans—Seattle—"
"She's your mother," Talia said. "You won't focus here. Go. I'll hold the fort."
Ezra looked torn, heart in his eyes.
"You sure?" he asked.
"I'm not just your girlfriend," she reminded him. "I'm your person. Go."
Ezra kissed her hard—urgent, grateful. "I'll be back before we leave for Seattle."
"I'll be here," she said.
And meant it.
The week without him was strange. Quiet. She studied. Packed boxes. Folded Ezra's sweaters and left him post-it notes in all the weird places he'd eventually unpack them from.
But he was different on the phone. Distant. Distracted. Grief laced his voice in ways he didn't speak aloud.
Talia left voicemails. Sent selfies. Waited.
Waited again.
But silence has a way of getting louder with time.
When he finally returned—one week later, worn and tired—she ran into his arms before words could catch up.
"I missed you," she whispered against his jacket.
Ezra held her tighter. "I was scared you'd change your mind."
"I didn't," she said. "I don't."
And later that night, when they sat beneath the window in their half-packed apartment, pizza boxes around them, and dreams slowly unfolding again, Talia reached for his hand and asked the only question that mattered.
"Still want to build a life with me?"
Ezra turned to her.
"I never stopped."