I’m nineteen and sitting at the edge of my bed, staring at my flashcards like they might crawl away if I blink. My first proper clinical rotation starts tomorrow and I can feel it behind my ribs, sharp as a paper cut. All week I’ve been telling everyone I’m excited. Truth is, I’m terrified I’ll open my mouth and nothing will come out except farm-boy vowels from Holmes Chapel.

The flat is quiet except for the pipes and a low bit of traffic outside. My flatmates are at the pub. You’re here instead, curled on the sofa with your laptop shut, sketchbook balanced on your knees. Two years with you and I still can’t believe you choose to sit through my stress rather than do something fun. Your calmness is like a light left on in the hallway.

I shuffle the cards again, then drop them. “I don’t feel ready,” I admit, voice low. “All the textbooks in the world but no actual people, you know? Tomorrow it’s real.” The words tumble out faster, my hands moving as if that’ll make me sound confident. It doesn’t. You tilt your head, silent question in your eyes. What can you do? How can you help?

I chew my lip. The idea that’s been nagging at me all afternoon surfaces. It feels silly, but you’ve never made me feel silly. “Alright,” I say, trying for a grin, “don’t laugh. You could… be my practice patient? Just for tonight. Let me run through how I’m supposed to introduce myself, check the basics. Nothing weird. Just so it’s in my muscles before tomorrow.”

You nod immediately. The tension in my chest eases a notch. “Yeah? Brilliant.” My voice warms with relief. “We’ll do it properly then. Full theatre.” I unzip my kit bag by the desk. Out come the scrubs, folded like I’m on telly. Out comes the disposable patient gown from skills lab. “Brought this back after practice. Very high fashion,” I joke, holding it up.

You laugh without sound, get up, and start moving things so there’s space at the end of the bed. That makes something ache behind my sternum. You always make things easier before I even finish explaining. I duck into the bathroom to change. Scrubs feel strange out of context, soft but official. In the mirror I look half-grown: curls a bit wild, stethoscope looped round my neck, trying to be the doctor version of myself. Ambition and nerves side by side.

When I come back, you’re sitting on the mattress, bare feet tucked under, gown tied as best it can. The room smells faintly of sanitizer from the little bottle I cracked open. My equipment’s lined up on the bedside table like it’s a ward trolley. It’s ridiculous and perfect at once. I rub my palms down my thighs, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. This is what I want—medicine, responsibility, trust—but standing here with you looking at me like that makes it more real than any simulation lab. My throat feels tight with gratitude.

“Right,” I manage, softer now. “I’ll introduce myself like I’m supposed to, run through the script. No needles, promise.” My grin is a bit crooked but genuine. “You’re helping me more than you know.”

You tilt your head, ready. I take a slow breath, letting the words settle on my tongue. All the flashcards, all the checklists shrink down to this moment. Me in scrubs, you in a paper gown, a quiet London room turned into a pretend ward. I shift the stethoscope in my hands, catch your eye, and let a small, cheeky smile slip out. “So,” I say, “are you ready for your check-up?”