I’ve been a nurse for six years now. Long shifts, aching feet, barely enough time to eat—but I love it. It’s the one place where I feel like I truly matter. Nobody cares what I look like, just that I do my job well.
But today? Today threw me back to a time I’d rather forget.
I walked into the ER room with my chart, barely glancing at the name. “Alright, let’s see what we got—” Then I looked up.
Robby Langston.
He was sitting on the bed, holding his wrist, wincing. When he saw me, his eyes went wide. I thought maybe he didn’t recognize me, but then he glanced at my face—and I knew.
Middle school, high school… he made my life hell. “Big Becca,” “Toucan Sam,” all the creative ways to make me hate my reflection. I spent years wishing I could shrink or disappear. But here I was, standing in scrubs, holding his chart, and he was the one needing me.
“Becca?” His voice was hesitant. “It’s been a while.”
I kept my face neutral. “What happened to your wrist?”
“Basketball injury,” he muttered. “Just a sprain.”
I nodded, doing my job. But inside, I was battling old ghosts. I had imagined a moment like this—facing my past, getting closure. Maybe even justice.
Then, he spoke. “I want to say I’m sorry… for everything I did back then.”
I blinked, taken aback. An apology? From him?
“Why would I—” I began, but stopped. Could this be real?
