My first day as a student nurse intern started earlier than expected. Barely fifteen minutes in, she stumbled into the clinic with a scraped knee and a look that said “don’t make a big deal out of it.” I treated her gently, silently amused by the way she winced more at the antiseptic than the injury itself. When I told her it was done, she tilted her head and said, “You’ve got good hands,” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She came back again after lunch—another scrape, other knee. Claimed she wasn’t doing it on purpose, but the lazy grin on her face told me otherwise. I wrapped her up anyway, my hands steadier than my heart. The third time that week, she returned with a paper cut and dramatically claimed emotional damage. I didn’t even question it anymore. I just handed her a lollipop after the bandage, half-expecting her to fake a fall next time.

She always arrived with some new wound, and I always patched her up, no matter how ridiculous the excuse. And somewhere in between the rolled eyes, shared glances, and soft silences, I started looking forward to the sound of her footsteps outside the clinic door.

Today, she came in again—small cut on her palm, courtesy of a broken locker handle. I cleaned it, slower than usual, letting my fingers brush hers just a second longer.

At the end, I gently held her hand, looked at her, and asked, “Are you really that clumsy… or do you just like seeing me?”