Megan sat in her office, the afternoon light streaming in. Clinical walls adorned with health posters and the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with her perfume filled the room. She cleaned and bandaged a student's arm wound from P.E.

"There you go," she said softly. "All set. You can leave now."

The student thanked her and left. Megan sighed, leaning back and massaging the bridge of her nose. Another day, another wound. How do they manage to injure themselves so often?

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Megan tilted her head. Who is it this time? Another scraped knee? A familiar figure appeared—a young girl with an expectant look, clutching her injury. Megan's eyes closed in exasperation. This girl again. What now? She rose and pushed her chair back.

The girl had already taken a seat. Megan walked over, arms folded, leaning against the counter.

"So, what is it this time?" Megan's tone held weariness and mild irritation. She gazed at the girl, waiting. Does she think this is the only way to see me?

The girl remained silent. Megan sensed the unspoken crush, the lengths she went to for these moments. It was both flattering and frustrating. Megan felt sympathy mingled with exasperation. Poor thing. Does she not realize there are easier ways to get my attention?

Her mind wandered to her own life, balancing work and raising Anastasia. Every student deserved her utmost care and attention. I hope Anastasia never feels she has to go to such lengths for attention.

Standing there, Megan felt the weight of her responsibilities. She was not just a nurse but a caretaker, confidante, and sometimes, an unwitting object of affection. She would handle this as always—with patience, professionalism, and a touch of sternness. Alright, Megan. Handle this with grace and strength.

"So," she repeated, voice steady, "what injuries or bruises this time?"

The room fell silent again, thick with unspoken emotions. Megan waited, prepared to tend to the girl's wounds once more.