Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Amelia isn’t used to feeling uncomfortable at work. The OR is her sanctuary, a place where her hands know exactly what to do — even Monica had made that observation. Confidence is second nature to her here; she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t doubt, doesn’t falter. Her mind only sharpens under pressure, and she can easily drown out the noise of her personal life with the precision of her scalpel. But recently, things have been different, her focus often splintered by something — someone — lingering at the edge of her mind. No amount of surgical finesse could quiet the unease she feels whenever she catches sight of Monica Beltran across the room.

She chalks most of it up to the fact she had asked Monica on a date, which was swiftly rejected. She still chastises herself for misreading the signals, and she’s been trying to keep her distance. However, they did share food last week after an incredibly tough day, and she ruminates a lot on the subtle, almost magnetic pull between them—the way they always seem to gravitate toward each other in their most trying moments.

But she asked Monica out, and Monica said no, so she’s trying to get it out of her mind. She can’t let herself get carried away. The problem is, despite trying to ignore it, she can’t help but notice how Monica’s presence in the room affects her — the way her heart rate quickens, the sharpness of her breath when they share brief eye contact. 

The bubble well and truly bursts when she walks into some weird exchange between Monica and her former brother-in-law that catches her completely off guard. Why is there all this tension between the two of them? Why does it feel like she’s not meant to be here when she was just trying to do a consult? And is that lingerie hanging out of Beltran’s pocket? She always defaults back to that name when she needs to—a form of emotional distancing, a way to draw a line between them and keep herself from falling back into the ache of wanting something she can't have.

Winston looks shifty as hell, and Beltran looks like she hopes the ground might swallow her up any second, and Amelia knows without a doubt that she’s walked into something. Her chest feels tight, but she has to remain professional. The rejection had stung before, but Amelia had convinced herself it was easier to swallow because Beltran just wasn’t ready to date anyone. Now, knowing she was hooking up with Winston — her brother-in-law, of all people — made the wound feel sharper, more personal. It wasn’t just a simple “no” anymore; it was Monica choosing someone else, someone connected to Amelia, and that made the ache of being unwanted hit even harder.

She’s grateful to get out of there. She needs to pull herself together because she’s going to be working with Beltran a lot today. Throwing herself into Ofelia’s scans gives her a temporary distraction, and once she’s confident with her evaluation, she heads off to find the source of her frustration.

She approaches her with a calmness that isn’t quite authentic, noticeably cooler than her usual easy warmth. Where she might typically offer a friendly smile or a casual touch on the arm, today she keeps her distance, her tone clipped and businesslike as she gives Beltran her medical opinion on Ofelia. It’s a thinly veiled attempt to construct a barrier between them, as if maintaining formality might stifle the ache that’s formed deep in the pit of her stomach. But even as she stands there, all straight-backed and impersonal, she can feel the tension tugging at her resolve, because being around Beltran still tilts her equilibrium no matter how hard she tries to pretend otherwise. And that’s the thing — despite everything, there’s still this undeniable pull, this feeling of wanting more than what’s possible.

She’s just about to walk away when—

“Hey, uh, about earlier. It wasn’t exactly what it looked like.”

But Amelia doesn’t want to talk about earlier. She doesn’t even want to think about earlier. She cuts Beltran off before she says more than Amelia is willing to hear. She can’t risk being hurt, and feigning indifference is the only way she can control her emotions over this.

“Uh…none of my business!” she says,  leaving before anything else can be said. She searches for a distraction, but soon the hospital is gripped by a far more unwelcome one — the news that the helicopter has gone missing in the storm. The shift in atmosphere is immediate, a tense undercurrent of dread as everyone scrambles for information. It’s the kind of crisis that normally commands Amelia’s full attention, allowing her to compartmentalize her personal life. But despite potential tragedy and the fact her nephew is on that helicopter, her mind still drifts back to Beltran.

Beltran, who is usually so composed and strong, seems to crack under the pressure of Ofelia’s parents' questions, and for Amelia, it’s instinctive to step in. Not only does she need to reassure the family, but she senses that Beltran needs her support. They’re a team now.

She finds her pacing the corridors, anxiety etched into every step. With still no news, Amelia watches as Monica’s composure finally begins to unravel. Any attempt at emotional distance dissolves the moment she sees her slide down the wall, her face etched with despair, and suddenly she’s just Monica again — not Beltran, not a rejection, just someone who’s terrified and hurting. She’d do anything in that moment to take away Monica’s pain. It’s a jarring realization, but it’s true nonetheless.

“I’m really sorry I… I just had to go to the worst-case scenario in my head, and it’s really hard not to when they’re flying right now over water and other things that could spell disaster.”

Without thinking, Amelia moves to her side, sinking down to the floor so they’re on the same level. It’s almost reflexive—the need to comfort, to ground her, to offer something steady when Monica looks anything but. And it’s unnerving, seeing her like this. Monica is usually so poised, the pillar of strength in any crisis, and yet here she is, crumbling. And God, Amelia recognizes it — the tight, shallow breaths, the restless hands, the desperate fight to keep it together. It’s like looking in a mirror, and that only makes Amelia’s urge to reach out stronger. All she wants right now is to calm Monica down, to anchor her the way she wishes someone had done for her in moments like this.

It’s that glimpse of humanity — the cracks beneath the surface — that pulls something loose in her, like permission to drop her own guard. Vulnerability is no longer one-sided; it’s shared, and it stirs a quiet courage in Amelia to lean into it rather than pull away.

“I’ve experienced enough that I always go to the worst-case scenario. And sometimes you’ve just gotta accept the situation at face value, so you can keep moving forward.”

She doesn’t realize the weight of her own words until they’re already out there. She’s offering comfort, but in doing so, she’s also unearthing a part of herself she’s kept carefully guarded. It’s not just empathy she’s extending — it’s lived experience, and for a brief moment, she wonders if Monica can see it. Can she hear the quiet confession underneath Amelia’s reassurance? That she, too, has spent years bracing for impact, convincing herself it was the only way to survive? And yet, here Amelia is, gently urging Monica toward something she’s still learning herself — to stop catastrophizing and simply exist in the moment.

The irony isn’t lost on her. Here she is telling Monica to accept the situation at face value, but she can’t help but think about the cruel parallel it holds in her own life. She’s spent weeks trying to do exactly that — to accept that Monica doesn’t want her, to accept that she misread the signals. Now she has to contend with the fact she’s chosen Winston too, and yet here she is, still showing up, still drawn to her, still caught in that gravitational pull that seems impossible to break. Maybe this is what moving forward looks like — not pushing feelings away, but choosing to be present despite them.

And still, there’s that small, desperate hope that Monica might catch the subtext. That she might recognize Amelia’s advice as a glimpse into her own heartache. Because isn’t she doing exactly what she’s telling Monica to do? Staying grounded, choosing not to spiral, despite the ache of rejection still sitting heavy in her chest.

And she can’t tell if it’s a testament to her own resilience or just another form of masochism. Maybe it’s both. But what she does know is that in this moment, sitting beside Monica, watching her unravel, Amelia can’t help but think that she’d do this a hundred times over — show up, steady her, offer her comfort — even if it breaks her a little more each time.

The shrill ring of the phone cuts through the tension like a lifeline. Monica picks up and Amelia watches her face for cues. Relief soon follows. The ambulance has arrived. Ofelia is safe. Lucas is safe. Levi is safe.

It’s only when the day is over and she’s heading home that Amelia allows herself to exhale, her shoulders sagging as the tension melts away. But then she hears Monica’s voice and her breath hitches.

“Hey, Ofelia’s vascular checks look good.”

Amelia smiles and lets out a sigh of relief.

“Nice!”

“Thanks for your help today!” Monica adds as she continues to walk with her.

“I just did a neuro exam…”

“No, I was freaking out and you calmed me down.”

And the only response she has is one of laughter.

“I’m being genuine!” Monica protests.

“No, I… it’s not you. It’s the irony that you would see if you knew me better.”

It’s not that she’s not pleased she was able to calm Monica down, it’s just that she can’t help but find the idea of herself in that role almost amusing. After everything she’s been through, the impulsivity, the addiction, the emotional chaos—it feels impossible that someone like Monica, so composed and steady, would see someone as unpredictable as she is as a source of calm.

“Listen, the thing with Ndugu, it’s just casual. We’re just going through something similar…”

Amelia looks at Monica, her words calm, almost too calm, as if she were trying to steady herself as much as the situation.

"You don’t owe me an explanation."

The words were out before she could think twice, and though they weren’t harsh, they held an undeniable finality. She couldn’t deny that the tension still lingered between them, thick in the air. But she was doing exactly what she had told herself to do: accept things at face value, no questions asked.

"Really. You and I are good," she adds, her voice a little softer this time, attempting to reassure both Monica and herself.

And she truly means it. She wants to respect Monica’s space, her boundaries. She knows that pushing would only drive them further apart, and the last thing she wants is to jeopardize the friendship they’ve built.

Yet, despite her calm facade, Amelia could feel the tightness in her chest, the familiar ache of emotions unspoken. Her earlier defensiveness still clung to her like a second skin, the reminder that her feelings hadn’t magically disappeared. She couldn’t hide that. But she was choosing to be patient, to let things unfold as they would.

She feigns indifference despite every inch of her body screaming to close the distance, to reach out, to soften the space between them. But she resists, the weight of her own vulnerability holding her back. She had long ago learned that her emotions could be a double-edged sword—too much and she’d lose control, too little and she’d come off as distant.

So, she fakes it. She isn’t exactly lying because she and Monica are good, but she knows she’s skirting the edges of her own heart, avoiding the deeper truth. The truth that she cares—maybe too much. The truth that she wants more than what they were navigating right now. But her feelings don’t matter as much as keeping their connection intact.

She’s going to show up for Monica, be present, listen, simply be there for her without wanting anything in return.

And that’s exactly what she does.

*-*-*

Three months later, Amelia is firmly grounded in her own rhythm. Life has become a steady, familiar pattern, with surgeries that were deemed impossible demanding her attention, and more precious time spent with Scout now that Jo was pregnant. But through it all, Monica remains a constant in her life, and Amelia has become content in building a friendship, letting their connection grow in the way it has, without complicating it with feelings neither of them have explicitly named.

But as they share another quiet evening in Amelia’s living room, talking about everything and nothing, the energy shifts. She doesn’t know what comes over her and possesses her to ask, it’s not like she can blame wine for loosening her lips. All she knows is that she’s feeling a little more vulnerable as she leans back into the couch and broaches a subject they subconsciously avoid.

“So how’s dating going? I mean, are you dating? Are you putting yourself out there?” Amelia’s voice is soft but apprehensive. Does she even want to know the answer?

“I don’t know... it’s kind of scary, you know? After everything with Michelle... the divorce...”

Amelia pauses, her heart giving a subtle jolt at the mention of Monica’s past relationship. She’s heard snippets before, but tonight feels like it’s the right time to tiptoe toward something that’s been brewing beneath the surface.

She catches herself before replying, her mind spinning, a mix of curiosity and hesitation. Taking a deep breath, she chooses her words carefully. “What about Winston?” she asks, testing the waters. “You dated him for a bit. Any chance of that becoming a thing again?”

The question is light, almost teasing, but there’s something else behind it—something Amelia isn’t fully ready to face yet, but she can’t help it. There’s a part of her that wants to know. That situation has always been a pain point for her no matter how hard she tries to pretend she’s over it.

Monica scoffs, but it’s not dismissive, more like a gentle laugh, one that carries an edge of disbelief. “Amelia, you know that was never serious. I’ve told you that before.”

Amelia turns her gaze to Monica, her voice quieter, more vulnerable than she intends. “It still hurt, Monica,” she admits, her chest tightening with the honesty of her confession. “I asked you out, and then to see you with Winston... I don’t know. It just… felt like rejection.”

She has no idea why this is all spilling out but now she’s started it’s like she can’t stop.

Monica’s face shifts, surprise flashing in her eyes. It’s almost like she’s processing the weight of Amelia’s words for the first time, and Amelia’s heart beats louder in her chest, wondering if she’s said too much.

“I tried to tell you it was nothing,” Monica says softly, her voice tinged with regret. “It wasn’t about you, Amelia. It really wasn’t.”

But Amelia isn’t done. Not yet. She’s been holding this in for too long. “It wasn’t about me?” she repeats, her voice shaking slightly. “You rejected me because of your divorce, but then you and Winston…”

She stops herself from digging an even bigger hole and there’s a brief silence between them, the tension heavy. Amelia watches Monica’s face, waiting for some sign, some explanation that makes it all make sense. Monica takes a breath, her eyes searching for the right words.

“It wasn’t about rejecting you,” Monica says quietly, her voice soft but firm. “It was about me, Amelia. It’s not that I didn’t care about you—I did, I do. It’s just... the thought of anything with you scared me.”

Amelia blinks, trying to make sense of her words. “Scared you?” she echoes, her voice low and confused.

Monica nods, her eyes meeting Amelia’s with an openness that feels raw. “Winston was just something fun, Amelia. Something familiar, something casual. No depth, no commitment. It was what I needed at the time. But with you… going on a date with you would have demanded more from me. It would’ve meant risking something deeper. And I wasn’t ready for that. I’m still not.”

Amelia’s heart lurches. She’s never heard Monica speak so candidly, so vulnerably. And in that moment, something inside her clicks. She’s starting to understand—starting to see what she hadn’t before. The realization is both painful and liberating at the same time. All these months, she’d thought Monica didn’t want her. That she hadn’t been good enough. But now she realizes it was never about that. It was about fear—fear of the unknown, fear of commitment, fear of what Amelia represented.

“You’re telling me that you were scared?” Amelia asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Monica nods again, her expression apologetic, but there’s something more behind it now—something deeper, something genuine. “I didn’t want to hurt you. And I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. I knew that if I let myself go there... I’d have to face everything I wasn’t ready to face. The possibility of something real, something lasting, scared me. I wasn’t ready to let someone in that deeply. Not then. And I’m still not sure if I am.”

Amelia feels the sting of those words more than she expects. She wants to reach out, to pull Monica closer, to close the distance between them, but she knows better. 

The vulnerability, the connection, it’s all there. It’s been there all along. But Monica’s fear, her reluctance to dive into something serious, stands in the way. The room feels colder now, the space between them wider than it ever was before. Amelia feels a tear prick the back of her eyes, her heart sinking further with each passing second. She doesn’t even know what to say but Monica soon solves the silence.

“I can’t do this right now, Amelia,” Monica says, her voice trembling slightly with an emotion Amelia can’t quite place. She stands up, the shift in her body language sudden and unmistakable. “I can’t risk our friendship. I can’t risk losing you. I’ve been through too much... and I’m not ready for another relationship, not with anyone.”

Amelia’s breath catches in her throat. “Monica… why?” Her voice is quiet, almost pleading, as though she can change her mind with the right words, the right argument. She’s always been someone who fights for what she wants, but this—this is different.

Monica pauses for a moment, looking over at her, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. It’s fleeting but unmistakable. Then, as if she’s reminding herself of something, she shakes her head, the softness in her expression hardening. “Amelia, I’m not looking for what you’re offering. You know what I’ve been through. I can’t—” She stops herself and exhales, frustration creeping into her voice. “I’m still recovering from my divorce. My heart’s been broken, and I don’t have anything left to give.”

Amelia feels a pang of hurt at the words, but she presses on, her desire to make Monica see the possibility of them too strong to ignore. She stands up, slowly, her feet hesitant, but her determination pushes her forward. “But we could be good together, Monica. We are good together. Look at how much we’ve grown in the last few months. We talk, we laugh, we share things. We understand each other like no one else does. Don’t you feel that?”

Monica’s gaze flickers down to the floor, her shoulders tensing. She’s silent for a moment, her breathing shallow as she tries to rein in the emotions threatening to spill over. Then she looks at Amelia, her eyes guarded now, “I do feel that, Amelia. But that’s exactly the problem,” she says, her tone becoming more defensive, more closed off. “We’ve built something that works, but it’s friendship . If I let you in like that, if I opened myself up, it would change everything. It would ruin what we have. And I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

Amelia’s heart tightens, and she takes a step closer, trying to bridge the distance between them, the ache in her chest growing sharper with each word. “I’m not asking you to lose me. I’m asking you to let me in. To give us a chance. You don’t have to be scared, not with me. I’m not asking for something huge, just… a chance.”

Monica’s eyes flash with something—irritation? Anger? Amelia can’t tell. She’s not used to seeing this side of Monica. It’s like a wall has gone up, blocking Amelia out, shutting down all possibility. Monica turns away for a moment, pacing the room before facing Amelia again, her voice colder now, a hard edge to it. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” She shakes her head. “It’s not about what we have—it’s about everything else .”

Amelia’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Monica looks at her, her eyes steely. “It’s the timing. We’ve already been through so much. I’m going through a very messy divorce. You have a child to consider. We both have careers that come first. We don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out like we did when we were younger. What if it doesn’t work? What if we end up destroying our friendship?”

Amelia opens her mouth to argue, but Monica’s words come faster now, each one a carefully constructed obstacle, as though she’s building a fortress around her heart.

“And what about you, Amelia? You’re fragile right now. I’ve seen it. You’ve got so much going on with your work, with Scout, with everything. I don’t want to be the person who pulls you away from all that. And honestly…” Monica pauses, her gaze hardening as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to be the one who breaks you, either. Not when you’re still finding your balance.”

Each word feels like a blow. Amelia takes a step back, the wind knocked out of her, but she’s not ready to give up yet. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m a big girl, Monica. You don’t have to protect me.”

But Monica is already shaking her head, her voice strained. “It’s not about protecting you. It’s about the fact that I’m not ready. Not to risk everything, not for someone like you. Not again.”

Amelia stands there, the tears welling up in her eyes. She blinks them back, but they come anyway, hot and angry, stinging at her cheeks. She wants to scream, to shake Monica, to make her see that she’s not fragile, that she’s ready for something more. But the words stick in her throat, caught in the crushing weight of Monica’s rejection.

Monica sighs, her face softening for a moment, but the finality in her voice is clear. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I just... I can’t.”

And with that, the conversation is over.

“I should go,” Monica says quietly, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. The door clicks shut behind her with a hollow sound, and Amelia is left standing in the quiet aftermath, her body trembling, her heart broken once again.

The room feels too big, too empty, without Monica in it. Amelia stumbles back to the couch, collapsing onto it, her hands clutching her stomach as the sobs come, uncontrollable. She’s crushed, overwhelmed by the unexpected conversation, but also by the realization that she was never really the one Monica was scared of. Monica was scared of what they could have together—of how deeply she could feel, of how much they could mean to each other. 

All this time she had convinced herself that keeping things light, casual, and steady was enough to keep her heart safe. But now it was all becoming clear. She wasn’t just building a friendship. She’s been falling in love with Monica the whole time. Every laugh, every late-night conversation in the on-call room, every coffee purchased, every meal shared, every moment of support, had been another brick in the foundation of something deeper, something she hadn’t even allowed herself to acknowledge. Monica had slowly become the center of her world (alongside Scout of course). She’s been falling even harder for Monica without even realizing it. It was never just friendship. It was always more.

But Monica wasn’t going to let it be anything more than what it already was. Not now. Not in this universe.

She had just given her all the reasons why they couldn’t be together—reasons that weren’t even about them, but about timing, about fear, about circumstances beyond their control. 

Amelia finds her mind wandering unbidden to a concept she’s always been fascinated with. Multiverses. Parallel worlds. She has the knowledge. She has the skills. Hell, as a neurosurgeon, she could operate on the human brain in ways most people couldn’t even comprehend. The brain was a neural network, a series of interconnected pathways that could be manipulated, rerouted. If you understood it well enough, you could bend the rules. And the idea of bending reality? Amelia’s mind, ever sharp and driven by curiosity, couldn’t let it go.

She had always been interested in this type of stuff—alternate realities where each decision led to a different version of herself. But it wasn’t until her conversations with Kai, the former title holder of Amelia’s heart who also happened to be a neuroscientist, that she gained a deeper understanding. Kai’s research on parallel universes and alternate timelines had opened her eyes to the practical application of these theories, and the thought of navigating between universes started to feel more like a possibility than a fantasy.

Kai had explained that, theoretically, it would be possible for someone with the right scientific background to access different versions of their reality. Amelia, with her knowledge of the brain and the neural pathways that governed memory, perception, and choice, knew she had the foundation to explore this. She'd learned to map out different realities through the interactions of neurons and their ability to store and retrieve memories, creating multiple pathways of existence, each leading to a different outcome. Kai had shown her the intricate science behind it, and Amelia had spent hours poring over the theories, figuring out how she could apply them to her own life if she ever needed it.

Thing is, she didn’t think she’d ever actually need it. But now she can’t shake the thought. What if she could use her knowledge to find a version of her life where Monica was hers? Where they were together, but she still has the life she has worked so hard to build?

She leans back on the couch, her mind busy with thoughts, as the weight of the potential hits her. There would be risks, of course. One wrong decision, one change in the timeline, and she could find herself in a reality where things were irrevocably different—where her career was ruined, or she lost her son, or Monica wasn’t even part of the picture. But if she could find a universe where she had everything she wanted—her family, her career, and Monica—maybe that would be worth the gamble.

And she would return to this universe if it was too different, if it didn’t have the core parts that made her life worth living. The idea of leaving everything behind for a love that may not even exist seemed reckless. But finding a version of herself where the pieces all fit, where she could have everything she wanted without sacrificing anything... that was the dream.

She stands up, pacing the room in her thoughts. She had to believe that somewhere —in some universe—Monica was ready to love her. Ready to build something together.

It could be different. It would be different. She would find it. She would find Monica’s love in another universe, in another timeline, where the pieces fit.

But what if something goes wrong and she can’t get back and she’s stuck in a universe that isn’t as perfect as she thought? What if the search for Monica’s love only leaves her more broken? What if she loses herself in the process? 

Her breath hitches. She could do this. She was just... exploring. Trying to see if there was a reality where they could be together. It could help. It would give her the answers she needed, the closure she deserved. Maybe it would even make it easier to move on in this universe if needs be.

She has to try.

Her decision was clear now. She was going to take the plunge. She would visit these universes, test them, see what they have to offer. She would find Monica in those realities, find a version of them together, see if that love existed in a way she could finally embrace. And if the reality she found was perfect, if it gave her everything she wanted, she would stay.

But if it wasn’t? If something was missing? She would come back. She couldn’t risk losing everything she has here. But the idea of finding a universe where she could have it all, including Monica, was too tempting to ignore.

Amelia takes a steadying breath, with one final glance at the empty space Monica had left, Amelia wipes away the last of her tears. It was time to go. Time to find Monica—somewhere, in another universe—and see if they could make it work.

Chapter Text

When Amelia opens her eyes she’s in the school auditorium, almost as if she’s been daydreaming. She’s 17, in her senior year of high school, but something feels different. She feels different, lighter even, and she immediately realizes that the Amelia in this universe has been dealt an easier hand. She’s wondering where Monica comes into this when Mrs Edwards—the hot drama teacher she recognizes from her old universe (some things never change)—claps her hands together and calls for attention.

"Alright, everyone, let’s run through the final scene. Leads, on stage!"

Amelia feels the heat rise to her cheeks as Monica appears. So in this universe they meet in high school? Suddenly, all the memories of the old universe begin to slip away. They don’t disappear entirely—more like they blur at the edges, becoming distant and dreamlike, leaving only an imprint of something once vivid. It’s as if her brain is struggling to reconcile two timelines at once, the eerie feeling of remembering something one way, only to find out the world insists it never happened. Everything’s changed. Another version of herself. Another Monica too. 

She’s feeling rage as she watches Monica up there because this was supposed to be her part. She always got the lead. She had auditioned for it, poured her heart into it, and now it was gone—snatched up by the new girl. Monica had transferred in just two weeks ago and was already making waves. A cheerleader with an effortless charisma that had the entire school wrapped around her finger. And now? Now she was taking over her favorite class, too.

As Monica delivers her lines with a confidence that made Amelia's stomach twist, she clenches the pencil in her hand, snapping it in two. Her best friend Charlotte is seated next to her and she shakes her head at Amelia’s actions. Looking at Charlotte gives her a weird sense of deja vu as she continues snapping her brand new pencils that her dad had just bought her after she broke the last set in science club when her research project didn’t turn out as well as she expected. She was always breaking pencils when she was stressed, and her dad was always wordlessly replacing them. She loves him for that. She can’t imagine life without him because he’s the one person relentlessly in her corner.

Charlotte is still staring at her.

“What!? She stole my fucking part. I’m allowed to be mad about it.”

Okay so Monica hadn’t technically stolen her part, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.

Charlotte lets out a sigh, the kind that says she’s used to dealing with Amelia’s theatrics. “You’re being dramatic.”

“We’re literally in drama class,” Amelia snaps back.

Charlotte rolls her eyes. “She auditioned fair and square.”

Amelia glares at the stage, where Monica is still delivering her lines flawlessly, her voice carrying through the auditorium like she was born for this. It makes Amelia’s skin itch. She had worked for this role, had put in the time, the effort—hell, she knew this script better than she knew some of her own family members.

And then Monica waltzed in with her perfect hair, her perfect voice, her perfect everything, and just took it.

Another pencil snaps between Amelia’s fingers.

Charlotte winces. “You’re gonna give yourself a stress fracture or something.”

Mrs. Edwards calls for a reset, telling Monica and her scene partner to take it from the top. Monica flicks her ponytail over her shoulder and gets back into place, completely unbothered.

Amelia crosses her arms. “I hate her.”

Charlotte snorts. “No, you don’t.”

“I do. ”

“Okay Amelia, you just keep telling yourself that.”

Amelia doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she watches, scowling, as Monica starts the scene over.

It’s going to be a long year.

*-*-*

Bickering with Monica Beltran quickly becomes Amelia’s favorite pastime, or least favorite, depending on her mood. 

“Can you not block the entire hallway with your cheer posse?” Amelia snaps one afternoon, books clutched tightly to her chest as she tries to maneuver through the cluster of cheerleaders.

Monica turns slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Wow, someone’s impatient today. Could you maybe ask nicely?”

“Could you maybe stop acting like you own this school?”

Monica smirks, leaning slightly closer. “I don’t act like I own anything. People just happen to like me.”

“Yeah? Well people obviously don’t know any better.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Shepherd.” Monica’s voice is sugar-sweet, but her eyes flash with challenge.

Her pupils grow bigger, darker, and Amelia finds herself averting her intense gaze.

“Neither does arrogance,” Amelia shoots back, spinning on her heels and storming away, her cheeks flushed with frustration.

The arguments become routine, like a ritual neither is willing to give up, each encounter charged with tension. It’s annoying, exhausting, and somehow strangely exhilarating, though Amelia refuses to admit the latter even to herself.

“Have fun in science club, dork!” Monica calls after her, laughter echoing down the hallway.

Amelia doesn't even turn around as she shouts back, “Go back to Texas, Beltran!”

Yes, she definitely hates Monica Beltran.

*-*-*

Amelia walks slowly through the empty halls, her footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floors. Her mind races with anxiety over the science club being cut due to funding issues. It wasn't just a club or an invested interest—it was a critical part of her college applications. Without it, her carefully planned path forward feels suddenly uncertain. She imagines Derek shaking his head in that condescendingly brotherly way of his, saying, “I told you so, Amy. You should have taken more AP classes. You should've studied harder.” The thought makes her chest tighten in frustration.

She’s lost in her thoughts until she hears quiet sniffling. Curious, she slows her pace and then she sees her—Monica, sitting alone with her knees drawn up to her chest, her face hidden by her dark hair.

Amelia pauses, discomfort swirling inside her. Her initial instinct is to walk away and avoid the girl who's made her senior year miserable. But something about Monica's quiet vulnerability stops her, and Amelia feels a strange tug in her chest—an unexpected sadness at seeing her rival so upset.

She takes a breath and cautiously approaches. Monica quickly wipes her eyes when she hears footsteps and looks up, defensive. “Oh, it's you,” she mutters. “Come to gloat?”

“No,” Amelia says softly, shifting awkwardly. “I was just walking by.”

She wants to leave because she’s clearly not wanted here, but she’s almost rooted to the spot.

“Are you... okay?”

Monica eyes her warily for a moment before dropping her shoulders slightly. “I messed up today,” she whispers, her voice tight. “I missed the landing in the homecoming routine. Everyone saw. I ruined everything.”

Amelia feels a surprising wave of empathy wash over her, easing the tension between them. Without really thinking, she lowers herself to sit beside Monica on the cold hallway floor. “I didn't notice,” she offers gently. “Honestly, I thought the routine looked great.”

Monica glances at Amelia skeptically but then sighs softly, the guarded expression slipping away. They sit in silence until Amelia hesitantly speaks up. “Everyone messes up.” She looks down, suddenly vulnerable herself, and before she knows it she’s relaying her own troubles in an attempt to find relatability with someone she usually despises. “Science club got cut. I needed the extra credit for college applications. It feels like everything I've worked for is falling apart.”

Monica studies Amelia quietly and for the first time she sees a sincerity in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

The silence settles around them like a bitter wind until Monica gently nudges her shoulder, the light touch like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds that storm Amelia’s mind. “You should join the softball team. I hear they’re looking for a new pitcher.”

Amelia scoffs. “Softball? Me?”

“Yeah,” Monica says with a small smile. “I've seen your hands.” 

Amelia is confused and her face shows it.

“My…hands?”

Monica nods.

“You talk a lot with them, especially when you're mad at me. They're quick, coordinated. You’d be good at it.”

Monica shrugs and Amelia blushes at the unexpected observation. The compliment feels genuine, and it surprises her how suddenly calm she feels. They sit quietly together, shoulder to shoulder, their rivalry briefly forgotten in the comfort of shared vulnerabilities.

*-*-*

Over the following weeks , Amelia finds herself slowly building an unexpected friendship with Monica. It starts with hesitant smiles exchanged in passing, gradually evolving into polite conversations between classes. Amelia begins to look forward to these interactions, noting with surprise that Monica has a clever wit and a warmth that slowly chips away at their past animosity.

Their banter soon becomes playful rather than confrontational. During softball practices, Monica often sits in the stands, wrapped in her cheer jacket, offering teasing yet genuinely encouraging commentary. Amelia would never admit it’s becoming the best part of her day.

“You know, Shepherd, if your aim was any worse, they’d use you to demonstrate the existence of parallel universes—because clearly , the ball must have landed somewhere, just not in this reality,” Monica shouts out from the bleachers one chilly afternoon in early December, her breath visible in the frosty air.

A few months back this would have caused a town pencil shortage, but now Amelia can only smile. She knew Monica’s tactics now—a deliberate push disguised as playful banter, challenging her to be better. It was Monica’s way of believing in her, even when Amelia didn’t fully believe in herself yet.

She finds herself seeking Monica’s advice on school, softball, and even personal matters—surprised at how naturally their friendship fits into her life.

As Christmas approaches and the final game arrives before break, Amelia shivers in the cold as she rubs her hands together when Monica jogs over, unzipping her cheer jacket.

“Here,” Monica says, draping the jacket over Amelia's shoulders. “I'm warmed up enough already. You need it more.”

Amelia feels her breath catch, not just at the sweetness of the gesture but also at the unexpected closeness. As Monica steps back, Amelia's eyes linger briefly on her toned, athletic figure, suddenly flustered as heat rises to her cheeks. She quickly looks away, pulling the jacket tighter around herself, comforted by the residual warmth and the scent of Monica’s perfume.

When it’s time for the game Amelia is focused and determined. She takes a steadying breath and throws the final pitch—fast, precise, and perfect. The crowd erupts in cheers as the umpire calls out the final strike. Amelia stands stunned, the thrill of victory buzzing through her veins as her teammates swarm her.

Through the chaos, she sees Monica sprinting towards her, cheering excitedly. Before she knows it, Monica has wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“I knew you’d do it!” 

The noise around them fades as Amelia feels her heart race, suddenly aware of how perfectly she fits in Monica’s arms. They linger just a moment too long, pulling apart slowly, eyes meeting with a quiet intensity that neither can ignore.

The moment passes as quickly as it arrives, but Amelia feels it. Something has shifted, and she’s both excited and terrified all at the same time.

*-*-*

Winter melts gradually into spring, and the air between Amelia and Monica grows softer with the season change. It’s familiar, warmer, but laced with an underlying tension that neither of them acknowledge. Their friendship surprises Amelia daily; she'd never imagined a world where the girl who once drove her to stationary-breaking frustration would become the one she sought out first each morning. It feels natural, effortless, and Amelia slowly begins to crave Monica's presence—the easy laughter that’s a natural consequence of Monica’s wit, the quiet conversations that stretch into comfortable silences, the encouragement masked with teasing. But there's something more beneath it all, a feeling Amelia can't quite label, or maybe doesn't dare to. She finds her heart beating fast a lot around her. Sometimes she wakes up flushed and confused from dreams she doesn't want to analyze—dreams about soft touches and whispered promises, dreams that leave her aching for something she's not sure she should want.

The realization of what it might mean terrifies her, and it's something she carries heavily, tucked deep beneath the surface. She considers talking to Derek about it one evening, but his teasing would be relentless, and she isn't ready for that. Instead, she finds herself nervously sitting on the back porch with her dad, the cool spring evening surrounding them, as she tries to voice her tangled feelings.

"Dad," Amelia says quietly, staring down at the cracks in the wooden porch. "Have you ever felt something…for someone…that you weren’t supposed to?"

Her dad studies her thoughtfully, clearly sensing the weight behind her words. "What's got you asking?"

"I don’t know," she mumbles, shrugging and hoping the dim porch lights mask the blush spreading across her cheeks. "Just wondering."

He nods slowly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You know, Amy, sometimes we don’t get to choose who we love. It just happens. And there’s nothing wrong with that, no matter who it is. If it’s real, you owe it to yourself to at least explore it."

She nods quietly, her heart both heavier and lighter all at once.

This is all new to her. She’s been to third base with guys before but she’s never so much as kissed a girl. And she’s never been in love with either gender. Love ? Is that what she’s calling it now?

It’s 1998 and she knows the “normal” thing is to date a guy but she realizes that isn’t what scares her here. She’s always been unafraid to be different. No. What scares her is the depth of her feelings, because she knows for certain she’s never felt like this before. And she’s no idea if Monica feels the same.

Spring break arrives and they spend every day together. Monica stays over on the last day of school and just never goes home. A common occurrence. They’re lying shoulder-to-shoulder on Amelia’s bed listening to NSYNC. It's a night like so many others, but the air somehow feels more charged than usual. Amelia can feel it in the way her heart beats faster when Monica shifts closer, the way she forgets to breathe when their eyes catch in quiet pauses.

They're in fits of laughter, when the moment arrives without warning. Monica's voice trails off, leaving silence hanging delicately between them. Amelia lifts her eyes slowly, meeting Monica’s gaze—warm, open, inviting.

Then Monica leans in gently, bridging the small gap between them, and their lips brush softly, hesitantly. The kiss is nothing short of electric, igniting every nerve in Amelia's body, filling her with warmth and joy and confusion. For a moment, everything feels right.

But suddenly Monica pulls away, panic flickering across her face as fast as the realization hits. She rises quickly, stumbling back and muttering something about how she has to leave before hurrying out the door. Amelia sits frozen, her heart pounding in her ears, lips tingling from their kiss as she touches them gently.

Did that just happen?

Did she just kiss her best friend?

Monday morning arrives quicker than Amelia would have liked. She tries to fake being sick but she’s the youngest of five and her mom knows all the tricks. She walks slowly toward her locker, anxiety twisting her stomach, wondering how to act when she sees Monica again. But before she has a chance to figure out what she'll say, she hears laughter down the hall—Monica’s laughter, bright and forced—and her stomach drops at the sight before her.

Monica stands next to Winston Ndugu, the captain of the football team, his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. Monica smiles up at him, but Amelia sees the strain behind it, recognizes the tightness in her eyes, the discomfort hidden beneath the carefully crafted cheerleader mask. Her chest aches sharply; the kiss they'd shared just days before now feels like a cruel joke.

She turns away, clutching her books against her chest, trying to breathe through the hurt. She moves quickly down the hallway, hoping Monica doesn’t see the tears she’s desperately blinking away. She knows Monica is afraid—afraid of what this means, afraid of what they might be. Amelia understands that fear all too well. Yet it doesn’t dull the ache of watching her walk away with someone else.

It's the first time Amelia truly understands heartbreak—the cruel realization that sometimes loving someone isn’t enough to overcome fear. She knows Monica cares; the kiss had proved that. But fear, she realizes bitterly, can speak louder than any feeling.

And now she's left standing in the hall alone, her heart quietly breaking, as the sunlight streams through the windows, as if to mock her with warmth she can’t feel.

*-*-*

Amelia tries to keep her distance after Monica starts dating Winston, convinced that it’s the best thing for everyone involved—especially her own battered heart. She buries herself in schoolwork, theatre rehearsals, and softball practice, determined to move on. But Monica, frustratingly, refuses to leave her thoughts. 

It doesn’t help that she’s always there. They share so many classes together, and she feels her gaze on the sidelines of every game.

The pull between them is magnetic, unrelenting. Even as she tries to ignore it, Amelia finds herself drawn back to Monica again and again. Quick glances stolen in hallways, lingering looks across classrooms, brief smiles shared at practice. 

She misses her friendship though. A lot.

Then, one afternoon in April, as Amelia packs up her things after drama rehearsal, Monica appears at her side, eyes nervous and intense.

“Hey,” Monica murmurs quietly.

Amelia tenses slightly, wary but simultaneously longing to talk to her friend. Her best friend. “Hey yourself.”

Monica fidgets, eyes darting around the empty auditorium before finally meeting Amelia’s gaze. Amelia’s heart pounds in anticipation, but before she can speak, Monica moves closer, closing the distance between them. Her hand gently cups Amelia’s cheek, thumb tracing softly along Amelia’s jawline, sending shivers down her spine.

“Monica—” Amelia begins breathlessly, but her words die on her lips as Monica kisses her again. This time the kiss is faster, desperate. It has all the electricity of the first time but with an added zest of longing and passion. Every nerve in Amelia’s body feels alive, humming with the rightness of Monica's lips against her own.

When Monica pulls away slightly, Amelia’s eyes flutter open, confusion etched into her features. Fear too.

“What about Winston?” she asks cautiously. She was sure the answer was going to hurt.

Monica’s gaze drops guiltily. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Despite the uncertainty, Amelia allows herself to fall into this—whatever it is. All she knows is that it’s intoxicating, thrilling, addictive, and before Amelia realizes what's happening, she's completely, helplessly in love.

And once she’s at that point, she throws herself in with her full chest.

The first night they’re truly alone is at Monica’s house. It’s quiet, and there’s a nervous energy between them, with the knowledge of the place to themselves creating endless possibilities. They start off just laying on the bed together, talking softly until Monica’s hand reaches for hers, fingers intertwining gently. Amelia feels her heartbeat speed up instantly. She never fails to notice how perfectly their hands seem to fit.

Their kisses are no longer hurried or uncertain. They’re soft, gentle, and deliberate. But as their lips finally meet, Monica kisses her with a hunger for more, and Amelia can feel Monica’s heart racing as fast as her own, both terrified and exhilarated.

She pulls away and Monica must sense her discomfort because she reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Can I… ask you something?” Amelia whispers, nervously fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

“Of course,” Monica says softly, her eyes gentle and patient.

“Have you…you know…ever been with a girl before?” Amelia’s voice shakes slightly, and she feels heat rise to her cheeks, embarrassment coloring her words.

Monica hesitates briefly, then nods slowly. “Yeah, once. Last summer back in Texas. Her name was Erica.”

Amelia's stomach twists in sudden, unexpected jealousy, and Monica seems to notice, offering a firm but reassuring smile.

“It was casual,” Monica explains, fingertips gently tracing Amelia’s knuckles. “Just experimentation. She didn’t mean anything… Not like you do.”

Amelia swallows nervously, shifting slightly, eyes fixed anxiously on the ceiling. “I've never… done anything like this before,” she admits quietly, voice trembling slightly. “With anyone. Guy or girl. I mean I've done things obviously, but just not— ”

Monica's eyes widen in surprise, but she quickly masks it as she litters Amelia’s hand with soft kisses. “Hey, that’s okay. We don’t have to—”

“No, I want to,” Amelia interrupts quickly, voice trembling slightly. “I trust you. I just... I’m nervous.”

Monica nods gently, squeezing her hand softly. “We’ll go slow, okay? It’s just me.”

Amelia laughs, embarrassment mixing with relief. “I probably won’t know what I’m doing. Like…at all.”

Monica chuckles softly, leaning closer. “That's alright. We’ll figure it out together.”

Amelia smiles shyly, comforted by Monica's gentleness. “What about you? Were you nervous with Erica?”

Monica shakes her head, her eyes tender as she leans closer, forehead gently resting against Amelia’s. “No. Because it wasn’t important to me. But you… you matter. That’s why I’m a little nervous, too.”

Amelia’s breath catches at Monica’s admission, warmth blooming deep inside her chest. She leans in, closing the gap between them, their kiss soft and careful, full of words neither is brave enough to voice yet.

When Monica pulls back slightly, her eyes are soft, filled with affection as she whispers, “We’ll take our time. Just tell me if you want to stop.”

“Okay. But I won’t. I won’t want to stop,” Amelia breathes quietly, her heart racing as Monica slowly moves closer again.

And in that moment, as Monica’s lips find hers once more, Amelia understands something profound—that everything with Monica is about to change. Things are getting serious.

As they lie tangled together afterward, Monica traces slow circles on Amelia’s bare shoulder, her heart thudding softly.

 "Are you okay?" Monica asks, her voice is filled with gentle tenderness now, a stark contrast to the breathless, heated sounds she'd made moments before.

Amelia nods, her cheek pressed against Monica's chest. "More than okay," she whispers.

Monica lets out a breath, almost a relieved sigh. "Good. Because I was terrified I'd mess this up."

"You didn't," Amelia replies quietly, shifting slightly to meet Monica’s gaze. Their eyes lock, a sharp intensity passing between them.

Monica gently cups Amelia’s cheek, thumb brushing across her skin. Her voice is barely above a whisper, vulnerable yet certain. "Amelia, I love you."

Amelia’s breath catches in her throat, heart swelling in her chest. She searches Monica’s eyes for doubt but finds only sincerity.

"I love you too," Amelia whispers, the words tasting like freedom on her tongue. "So much."

They smile shyly, sharing another gentle, lingering kiss, both understanding they've crossed a threshold together—one from which there's no turning back.

Spring turns into early summer, and their relationship grows in quiet secrecy. When Winston and Monica finally break up, Amelia can't help the wave of relief that washes over her. She's never been happier, knowing Monica is finally hers alone. Late-night conversations turn into whispered plans for their future—college together, their shared life where they’d be theatre majors together at the University of Washington. Everything was perfect. Well, almost everything.

 “I’m tired of hiding us,” Amelia admits one night, nestled against Monica’s side, voice hopeful. “Maybe we should just…tell people.”

Monica tenses, eyes filled with anxiety. “We can’t—not yet. People won’t get it. They’ll talk.”

“They’ll talk anyway,” Amelia argues softly. “But we'll have each other.”

“I know, but it’s not that easy,” Monica whispers sadly, holding Amelia closer. “But college will be different. Once we’re away from here, we can be ourselves. I promise.”

Amelia nods slowly, believing her.

But promises only hold for so long. Monica grows quieter, more withdrawn as college approaches, and the distance between them widens. Amelia senses it but ignores the warnings. She figures Monica is just stressed about finals. She doesn’t want to lose this. Doesn’t want to lose her.

Until one afternoon, everything changes. Monica approaches her at school, eyes avoiding Amelia’s. Amelia’s heart sinks immediately, sensing what's coming before Monica even speaks.

“Winston and I are getting back together,” Monica says quietly, her voice carefully neutral, eyes unable to meet her. “We need to just be friends.”

Amelia stares at her, the words hitting her like a punch. Her voice cracks painfully. “Mon, why?”

Monica turns away, suddenly guarded, cold, the softness from before nowhere to be seen. “Because we won’t work. It’s not realistic.”

“Monica—”

“We can’t keep doing this. My family, your family—our friends. The world isn't ready for us. But look, I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

Amelia feels tears sting her eyes. “I don’t think I can just be your friend, Monica. Not after everything.”

“Maybe someday,” Monica whispers, eyes filled with tears she’s desperately holding back. “When we're out of college, when things are easier. But right now, we have to stop.”

Amelia’s heart shatters quietly. First it was when they go to college, now it’s after, and she knows Monica is making promises she can’t keep. She also knows Monica is scared, terrified of being different, of judgment, of losing the acceptance she’s worked so hard to gain. But that doesn’t ease the pain of watching her walk away again.

They drift apart painfully, and soon the image of Monica and Winston walking hand-in-hand in the school corridors is a constant reminder of everything she's lost.

As high school comes to an end, Amelia finds out through the grapevine that they’ll be heading to separate colleges—Monica will be following Winston to Massachusetts. Or is she running from her? Either answer hurts. Amelia decides she’ll stick to her original plan of Seattle and it pains her to know they’ll be so far apart. Physically and emotionally. No chance of a college reunion which she’s been secretly holding on to hope of. It pains her to see Monica still clinging to her perfectly curated relationship with Winston, the socially acceptable choice, but not the right one.

Graduation rolls around and it’s the final chance to say goodbye. Monica finds Amelia one last time. Her voice is quiet, remorseful, eyes glossy with tears she refuses to let fall. “Maybe someday, Amelia. Maybe someday things will be different. We’ll find each other again. We’re young. We have time. The people we date now aren’t likely to be the people we’ll date forever.”

Amelia nods quietly, choking back the words she wants to say—that someday might never come, that life doesn't wait forever, that time moves quicker than either of them realize. Instead, she just lets Monica leave, watching her go with an ache in her chest that feels endless.

They never speak again. 

Monica becomes nothing more than a haunting question in Amelia’s life—the kind that leaves scars and echoes of what might have been. Both go on to live their lives, bearing wounds from a love that came too soon and left too abruptly. Amelia surprisingly conforms to expectations and never dates a girl again. She’s been burned by the intensity of being in love with a woman and she’ll never risk that gut-wrenching heartache again. She marries her college boyfriend and she’s happy in the security of being Amelia Lincoln. He’s reliable, steady, and he’ll never hurt her. He’s everything her high school girlfriend wasn’t.

The evolution of social media feels cruel sometimes—particularly on nights when Amelia finds herself scrolling endlessly through familiar-yet-foreign lives. That's how she discovers Monica married her college sweetheart too. Only, Monica married a woman. In every photograph, Monica looks happy—genuinely, beautifully happy. Amelia doesn't feel bitter, but another emotion rises sharply in her chest: envy. It's unsettling to admit, but envy twists painfully in her heart because she can't help but feel dissatisfied in her own safe, predictable, and monotonous marriage, while Monica seems to have finally gotten everything she ever wanted. Amelia doubts Monica ever thinks about her, not when she's built such a perfect life. But Amelia thinks of Monica often—too often—wondering if somewhere in that idyllic happiness, Monica ever remembers her, even briefly.

And as Amelia realizes that this universe didn't offer her what she'd been seeking, her consciousness shifts back to its original state. Leaving certain things behind—her dad, Derek—feels agonizing, like tearing away pieces of herself she never knew she was missing until now. Yet, she can’t deny that the Amelia who grew up without her father was shaped into someone stronger, someone resilient, someone she recognizes and respects. It’s not that losing him so young had been a blessing—far from it—but it had shaped her into the person capable of weathering life's harshest storms. The Amelia of this universe, who’d never had to face that early loss, felt strangely incomplete, a softer but less resilient version of herself, unsure and hesitant, unable to take risks or confront painful truths. She aches briefly for the life she could have had with Derek, with her father, but it isn’t enough to tether her here. Because despite all she’d lost, she didn't want to exist as a mere shadow of herself, living safely but unhappily. And so she lets go, returning to the universe where she knew heartbreak, but also genuine strength—back to a version of herself she could recognize. Back to her own reality.

She had put so much emphasis on timing and meeting Monica too late, only to find out that she could meet her too early and be worse off. More tainted. Sometimes too much time can be a problem too because we always think we have more time, especially when we're young. But Amelia knows now—time doesn't wait, and chances never come again. Meeting earlier meant the world around them hadn't caught up yet—history hadn’t shifted, culture hadn’t evolved, and loving each other openly was still something whispered behind closed doors.

As she sits deep in thought, Amelia wonders what other variations of the universe she could try. Perhaps the answer was meeting later—after Monica had grown bolder, braver. High school had been too soon—too much uncertainty, too much fear of judgment—but perhaps college would be different. Monica had married her college girlfriend so her sexuality clearly wasn’t an issue anymore during that time. Maybe meeting Monica there, at a stage when she might be more confident, more secure in who she was, could lead to a happier outcome. Amelia's heart quickens with hope. She knows the risks, knows the pain of disappointment now, but the possibility of finding Monica again was too compelling to resist. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath, ready to try again, ready to find out if college would be the universe where Monica would finally choose her, openly and without hesitation.

Chapter Text

When Amelia opens her eyes, it’s raining.

Not a downpour—just a light drizzle, the kind that makes the air look misty. She blinks a few times, adjusting to her surroundings. A thick medical textbook is balanced on her lap. Her hands are ink-stained from taking notes, and a hot coffee—still warm—rests beside her on the bench.

This isn’t Seattle.

She turns her head, taking in the grey-brick buildings, the ivy creeping up the walls, the historic air of the campus. The realization hits slowly as she reads the banners. University of Pennsylvania. 

She’s in Philadelphia.

Her heart flutters, half with recognition, half with nerves. A different city. A different choice. A different life.

The memories of her original universe begin to blur at the edges again—lingering like dreams she’s just woken up from. Not fully gone, but distant enough to feel surreal. She still remembers her dad’s death when she was five, the sound of the gunshot, the chaos that followed. Evidently still a part of her in this universe. But here, something about her feels… looser. Less sharp around the edges. 

This version of Amelia must have made some different choices. She didn’t end up in Boston. Or Seattle. She landed here.

In this world, she’s a first-year med student at Penn. It’s nice to know that multiple versions of her ended up in the medical field—especially after seeing one who’d chosen theatre instead. Maybe this is confirmation she was always meant to be a doctor. The weight of it all registers slowly—she’s right at the beginning again. Early twenties. Another shot at Monica.

The thought alone makes her heart beat faster.

She doesn’t know what this version of Monica will be like—who she’ll be, how she’ll act, what her circumstances are—but the curiosity, the hope, is already flickering like a low-burning flame.

New beginning. New Monica. New universe.

And maybe, just maybe—finally—a chance to get it right.

She brushes herself down, grabs her coffee and books and heads towards the lecture hall, where all memories of the previous universe disappear.

The lecture hall is buzzing with quiet conversation, the kind of low hum that fills up a room before class begins. Amelia scans her environment, locating an open seat halfway up the middle tier and slides into it, grateful for a moment to collect her thoughts.

She pulls out her pen and notebook and starts reviewing her anatomy diagrams.

“Excuse me,” a voice says, cutting through her focus.

Amelia glances up, eyebrows lifting. A girl is standing in the aisle beside her, arms crossed, an arched brow raised with practiced precision.

She’s stunning.

Her dark hair is pulled into a perfect ponytail, her eyeliner winged so sharply it could cut glass. She’s wearing joggers and a fitted hoodie with a Penn crest, and somehow still manages to look like she’s stepped out of a catalog. Her expression, though, is anything but warm.

“That’s my seat.”

Amelia blinks. “What?”

The girl gestures, not unkindly, but not exactly politely either. “I sit there. Every class. Second row, third seat from the aisle.”

Amelia glances around. “Uh... there aren’t assigned seats.”

“Right. But that’s mine.” Her tone is cool, clipped. Confident.

Amelia opens her mouth, then closes it again. She's not sure what gets under her skin more—the entitlement or the way this girl smells like expensive shampoo and certainty.

“Well,” Amelia says, gesturing around, “there’s plenty of other seats.”

“Clearly,” the girl mutters, but doesn’t push further. She turns and heads toward the far side of the room, her shoulders stiff, her whole demeanor radiating annoyance.

Amelia watches her go, feeling oddly flustered. She doesn’t usually care what strangers think of her, but there’s something about that girl—something that puts her on edge.

The professor starts class, launching into a discussion about cranial nerve function, but Amelia can’t focus. She taps her pen against her notebook, distracted, stealing a glance across the room where the girl has seated herself. She’s leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the occasional irritated glance in Amelia’s direction.

Great. Day one, and she’s already made an enemy.

After class, a group of students gather near the door, chatting animatedly. Amelia hangs back near the edge, waiting for the cluster to clear before heading out. She catches part of the conversation—something about rotations, and someone mentions Boston.

“I was actually supposed to go to med school in Boston,” Amelia says without really thinking, finally inserting herself into the conversation. “But I made a last-minute change to Penn.”

From behind her, a scoff. “Just say Harvard.”

Amelia turns, and there she is again—the girl from earlier, arms folded, that same dry smirk on her lips.

“They always say ‘Boston’ like it sounds less pretentious,” she says to the group, who chuckle.

Amelia’s face heats. “I wasn’t trying to sound pretentious.”

“Sure,” the girl says easily. “But I’ve heard this speech before. ‘It’s just Boston,’ ‘it’s not a big deal,’ and then suddenly we’re all supposed to be impressed they got into Harvard.”

Amelia’s jaw tenses. She doesn’t reply. Instead, she steps back from the group, the familiar itch of frustration crawling down her spine. In her next class, she breaks several pencils during the lecture. She doesn’t hear a word the professor says.

*-*-*

Over the next few weeks, Monica Beltran becomes Amelia’s nemesis by unspoken agreement. Everything about her rubs Amelia the wrong way—her perfect hair that doesn’t move,, the sheen of her ChapStick, the way she always seems to have the right answer and say it just before Amelia can. Their friction isn’t explosive, just constant—a series of petty interactions and pointed comments that leave Amelia feeling constantly annoyed.

Every class feels like a silent battleground. Monica’s hand always shoots up half a second before hers, her notes are color-coded and aggressively neat, and she somehow always finds a way to sit just within Amelia’s eyeline. Once, during a histology review, Monica glanced at Amelia’s open binder and muttered under her breath, “No color-coding? Bold strategy,” with an amused scoff.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Some of us learn better the old-fashioned way.”

Monica smirked. “Whatever helps you keep up, Shepherd.”

Amelia’s pencil snapped in half right there on the desk.

It all comes to a head during a small group discussion. The topic is diagnostic reasoning, and Amelia is halfway through explaining her theory on a case study when Monica interjects.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Monica says, tilting her head slightly. “The patient’s symptoms point more toward Guillain-Barré than MS.”

“I was getting to that,” Amelia snaps, turning toward her. “You didn’t need to cut me off.”

“Well, sorry for trying to be efficient. We’re all here to learn, right?”

Amelia exhales sharply through her nose. “Maybe you should focus on learning to let other people finish a sentence.”

Their classmates glance between them like they’re watching a tennis match.

Monica offers a tight, clearly forced smile. “Noted.”

Later that morning, Amelia drags herself to the campus café, bleary-eyed and annoyed when she collides with another student, spilling coffee down her white sweatshirt.

“You look like someone who either just pulled an all-nighter or is about to,” he says, handing her a napkin.

“Both,” she mutters, blinking at him.

He laughs. “I’m Winston.”

“Amelia.”

They shake hands, and from that moment on, a quiet friendship starts to form. They start sitting next to each other in lectures, trading flashcards before class and commiserating over labs. Winston is kind, hilarious, and—best of all—completely uninterested in drama. He doesn’t pry when Amelia rolls her eyes every time Monica so much as opens her mouth. He just raises his eyebrows and says, “So what’s your deal with Beltran?.”

“She has it out for me.”

“Or,” Winston says thoughtfully, “she’s just a very competitive, intimidatingly brilliant person who happens to be incredibly attractive, and it’s making you twitchy.”

Amelia stares at him.

“Just a theory,” Winston shrugs.

Amelia denies it, of course. Loudly and with more protest than necessary.

But still, she finds herself noticing things—like the way Monica chews on the end of her pen when she’s deep in thought, or how her laughter is just a little too loud in study groups. She notices how she always smells like citrus and clean laundry, and how her eyes flick away whenever they make accidental eye contact.

It’s infuriating.

And a little intriguing.

And she hates that it’s intriguing.

Amelia reminds herself she’s here to become a doctor, not get sidetracked by competitive banter and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. She’s here to make something of herself. And Monica Beltran, with all her smirks and Harvard jabs and goddamn Greek goddess posture, is a distraction she doesn’t need.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

*-*-*

It happens late one evening after a long anatomy lab. Most students have already cleared out, desperate for sleep or sustenance or both. Amelia’s lingering to clean up her station, already halfway through stacking slides and wiping down her bench when she hears the sound—barely audible at first, just a quick sniff and a rustle of movement.

She turns and goes out back to find the source of the noise, and that’s where she finds Monica sitting in the storage closet, hunched over with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Amelia freezes. Every part of her instinct screams to leave—this isn’t her problem, and it’s definitely not her place. But something makes her stay rooted. Maybe it’s the way Monica’s shoulders are trembling, or the way she’s trying so hard to be silent.

She takes a cautious step forward. “Hey.”

Monica jumps slightly, hastily wiping her face. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on people.”

Amelia holds up her hands. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were still here.”

Monica sniffles again and keeps her gaze low. “Well, I am.”

The silence stretches, awkward and heavy, until Amelia can’t stand it. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Monica says quickly—too quickly. Her voice is taut, brittle.

“Right,” Amelia mutters. “Because crying alone in a closet is peak fine.”

That earns her a look. Not quite a glare though. Monica exhales, shaking her head. “I bombed my clinical skills assessment.”

Amelia blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”

Monica nods. “Yeah. Couldn’t even get the blood pressure cuff on right. Froze during the abdominal exam. I’ve never… I don’t usually freeze like that.”

“You’re always top of the class.”

“Exactly,” Monica snaps, more frustrated at herself than at Amelia. “Which is why it’s so embarrassing.”

There’s a pause.

“I used to be scared of loud noises,” Amelia says suddenly, leaning against the wall. She wants to sink down to Monica’s level but there’s no room to do so.

Monica frowns, caught off guard. “What?”

Amelia shrugs. “When I was five, I saw my dad get shot. Right in front of me.”

Monica’s expression softens immediately, her breath catching.

“After that, anything loud would send me into a panic. Balloons popping, car backfires, even the blender. I couldn’t sleep without earplugs for years.”

“What changed?”

Amelia offers a small smile. “One summer, my brother Derek bought a bunch of fireworks. Said we weren’t leaving the yard until I could watch them go off without flinching. We spent hours setting them off. I was crying, yelling at him… but eventually, the fear stopped feeling so big. It lost its grip on me.”

Monica is quiet for a moment, absorbing the story. Her voice is soft when she says, “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”

Amelia shrugs again, like it’s no big deal. “My point is that you’re allowed to freeze. You’re human. This is hard.”

Monica nods, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “Thanks, Shepherd.”

Amelia returns the smile. “Don’t mention it. Ever. Seriously. You make a deal out of this and I’ll steal your next chair on purpose.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of Monica, and something eases between them. They’re still not friends—at least not officially—but something unspoken shifts that night. A sliver of understanding, a layer of armor peeled back.

The next day, they’re back to their usual banter—Monica raising an eyebrow when Amelia stumbles over an answer in class, Amelia rolling her eyes when Monica breezes in late and still manages to impress the professor. But underneath the snark, there’s something else. Something warmer. Like maybe this rivalry isn’t entirely built on dislike after all.

Maybe it’s something else.

*-*-*

The year flies by faster than Amelia expected. Between dissecting cadavers, all-night study marathons, and pushing her brain to the edge of burnout, she hasn’t had much time for anything but survival. Finals week is behind her now, and for the first time in months, she feels like she can exhale.

There’s a party that night—end of first year, hosted by some second-years in a barely livable off-campus apartment. The place is packed, music humming low from a stereo in the corner, pizza boxes stacked high on every surface. The energy in the room is high, and the drinks are strong enough that Amelia’s second cup of punch is already hitting her harder than expected.

She finds Winston near the makeshift bar (a fold-out table with a cooler under it), and they spend the first part of the night people-watching and rating everyone’s stress-induced haircuts.

“I swear the guy in the corner shaved his own head with safety scissors,” Winston mutters.

“God bless him for trying,” Amelia says, sipping her drink. “Some of us just chose dramatic bangs instead.”

Winston snorts. “You’re so dark and mysterious.”

She’s mid-eye roll when she sees Monica across the room.

Tight black jeans that cling in all the right places. A cropped shirt  that shows just a sliver of skin. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, and her cheeks are flushed—either from alcohol or laughter, Amelia isn’t sure. She’s surrounded by a few classmates, casually owning the space like she always does.

Amelia tries to look away. She does. But it’s like her eyes won’t listen to her brain.

“Jesus,” Winston mutters. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The longing stare thing.”

“Shut up,” Amelia mutters. She gives him a playful nudge in the side before returning her focus to Monica. Or Beltran, as she likes to call her.

“Go talk to her.”

“I’d rather have brain surgery.”

But of course, fate—or maybe the alcohol—has other plans.

Later in the night, Amelia’s standing near the back door when she feels a presence beside her.

It’s her ..

“You survived first year,” Monica says, holding out a red cup in toast.

“Barely.”

They clink cups. Amelia’s heart stutters.

Monica leans in, a little too close. “Do you always break eye contact like it’s a full-time job, or is that just for me?”

Amelia smirks, emboldened by the liquor. “Only when you’re being annoying.”

“So, all the time?”

“Exactly.”

Monica laughs, soft and genuine. “You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure have a hard time not staring at me when you think I’m not looking.”

Amelia raises an eyebrow. “And you seem to have a hard time staying out of my personal space.”

“Maybe I like making you flustered.”

“You definitely like being annoying.”

“I’m very talented,” Monica says with a shrug, her eyes dancing. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept looking at me during cardio lab last week.”

Amelia scoffs. “I was trying to focus.”

“Oh, you were focusing alright.”

There’s a pause, the air thickening between them. The tension shifts from playful to charged in an instant. Their cups are still in hand, but neither is drinking now.

Amelia speaks, her voice softer. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

She swallows.

“Push. Tease…Flirt.”

Monica’s expression falters just enough to be real. “Because you let me.”

Amelia stares at her, the bravado draining from her as something more honest takes its place. “Maybe I don’t mind it.”

Monica looks at her then—really looks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there, barely a breath between them, the noise of the party muted behind the hum of electricity passing between them.

Monica glances to the side as if to check their surroundings. No one else is around.

She leans in.

And kisses her.

It’s quick at first—testing the waters, hesitant—but when Amelia doesn’t pull away, Monica deepens it. Their mouths move together like they’ve done this before in dreams, in arguments, in all the what-if moments they’ve tried to suppress. It’s clumsy and hungry and hot, and Amelia feels her back hit the wall with a soft thud. 

Monica’s hands settle on her waist. Amelia’s fingers tangle in Monica’s shirt, pulling her closer.. Everything is spinning but in the best way, and Amelia doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the months of tension finally snapping—but God, it feels incredible.

When they finally break apart, breathing heavily, Monica laughs softly. “That’s… not how I thought tonight would go.”

Amelia’s eyes are wide. “Did you—did you plan that?”

Monica shrugs, her voice low and playful. “I was hoping.”

Amelia blinks. “But you hate me.”

“I don’t,” Monica says softly. “You just make me crazy.”

“Good crazy or bad crazy?”

“Both!”

Amelia laughs, still breathless, and Monica steps back slowly. “You wanna get out of here?”

She hesitates for a split second—and then nods.

They leave without saying another word. Monica grabs her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they haven’t spent the last year snapping at each other across lab tables and exchanging thinly veiled insults. Her fingers are warm, steady, and the moment their palms connect, Amelia feels a rush of anticipation ripple down her spine.

They navigate the throng of people in the hallway, stepping over discarded cups and dodging partygoers making out against the walls. Monica pulls her up the stairs, turning down a narrow hallway until they reach a half-open bedroom door. She slips inside without hesitation, tugging Amelia in with her and closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the string lights hung crookedly above the bed. There’s a faint smell of stale beer and someone else’s cologne, but Amelia barely registers it. Her heart is pounding, ears buzzing with adrenaline and disbelief.

“This isn’t weird, right?” Monica asks, breathless.

“Only if we let it be,” Amelia replies, voice steadier than she feels.

There’s a long pause. Then Monica steps forward, slowly, giving Amelia time to back away.

She doesn’t.

Their mouths meet again, this time slower—less frantic than before, more exploratory. Monica kisses like she’s done this a hundred times, lips soft and confident. Amelia kisses back like she’s been waiting her whole life for it.

Hands roam—carefully at first, then more boldly. Monica slides her fingers beneath the hem of Amelia’s shirt, thumbs brushing over bare skin, and Amelia gasps softly, not from surprise, but from the way it feels to be touched with such want.

They move to the bed, shedding layers between kisses, the rest of the world disappearing behind the closed door. There’s nothing but heat and breath and skin, and the low creak of a too-old mattress under their weight.

Monica whispers her name like a secret she’s finally allowed to say. Amelia’s nerves fade under her touch, replaced with something warmer, deeper, hungrier. When Monica presses soft kisses along her collarbone, Amelia lets out a quiet sound she didn’t know she could make.

It isn’t rushed, despite the heat. Monica is gentle, intentional—checking in with her, reading every signal. She kisses Amelia slowly, reverently, like she’s trying to undo every cruel, competitive word they’ve ever exchanged. Her mouth works wonders over every inch of Amelia’s body.

Amelia, flushed and breathless, clings to her like she’s afraid the moment will vanish.

And when they fall asleep later, tangled together under someone else’s sheets, Amelia feels different.

She’s just not ready to think about why yet.

*-*-*

Summer break passes quickly and before Amelia knows it, she’s a second year. She steps into the lecture hall and immediately regrets it.

It’s not the coursework—she’s actually looking forward to that. Neuroanatomy, pathology, clinical rotations on the horizon. Her backpack is heavier than it needs to be, filled with freshly sharpened pencils and enough highlighters to stock a stationary aisle. No, the problem hits her the second she sees Monica across the room.

Monica is laughing at something one of their classmates said, her smile easy and effortless. She looks exactly how Amelia remembers her: glossy hair, confident demeanor, and that damn citrus-and-clean-laundry smell that Amelia swears haunts her dreams. It’s been months since that night in the upstairs bedroom. Months since they hooked up. Months since Monica ghosted her the morning after, barely making eye contact during the final week of school and vanishing over the summer like it never happened.

Amelia, on the other hand, has thought about it more times than she can count. Too many times. Inconvenient times. Like in the middle of family dinner or when she’s supposed to be studying prerequisites for second year. Beltran had actually been all she’d thought about all summer, and she hates herself a little for it.

Still, maybe now—with the space and the silence of summer behind them—things would be different. Maybe they could laugh about it, chalk it up to med school stress and one too many drinks. She could live with that, as long as Monica acknowledged her.

 Amelia steels herself, then walks over with what she hopes is a casual smile. As soon as she approaches, Monica looks down at her book and thumbs through it.

“Hey,” she says, voice light. “Long time no see.”

Monica barely glances at her. “Hey,” she says flatly, eyes not leaving the page in front of her.

Amelia swallows, her smile faltering. “How was your summer?”

“Fine.”

That’s it. No return question. No eye contact. No anything.

Amelia lingers for another second, waiting, hoping for something—anything—to crack through the wall. But it never comes.

“Okay then,” she mumbles, stepping back, her voice tight. “See you around.”

She walks away quickly, her face burning, heart twisting with disappointment. Whatever she thought might’ve changed—clearly hadn’t. Monica’s acting like nothing happened. Like they’re just classmates again.

Fine.

Amelia slides into a seat near Winston, trying not to look like she’s fuming. He side-eyes her immediately.

“Oh boy,” he mutters. “She’s got to you again hasn’t she?”

“Who?” she says too quickly.

Winston doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. “So we’re doing the avoidance thing again this semester?”

“She’s the one avoiding me,” Amelia hisses. “I’m just… responding.”

“Mhm.” He raises a brow. “Well, maybe one of you should try talking about it.”

Amelia ignores him and digs out her notes, flipping pages with more force than necessary. But the tightness in her chest lingers all the way through the lecture.

Later that week, it finally boils over.

She’s on her way to the library when she turns a corner too quickly and nearly collides with Monica. They both stop short, eyes wide. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Amelia can’t hold it in any longer.. “You’ve been avoiding me!”

Monica blinks, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Amelia crosses her arms. “You’ve spent the entire week pretending like we didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Monica cuts in sharply, but her eyes betray her panic.

Amelia steps closer. “Hook up. Kiss. Sleep together. Take your pick.”

A long silence stretches between them. Then Monica looks down and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” she says quietly. “I just… didn’t know what you wanted from me after that night.”

“I didn’t want anything,” Amelia lies. “Except maybe basic human decency. A hello? A nod of acknowledgement? Maybe don’t act like I’m invisible?”

Monica winces. “It was complicated.”

Amelia laughs bitterly. “It didn’t feel complicated when your mouth was on mine.”

That shuts Monica up.

Amelia brushes past her, pulse racing—but before she gets too far, Monica grabs her wrist.

“Wait,” she says, breathless. “I’m sorry.”

Amelia turns around slowly. “For what?”

Monica doesn’t answer with words. She kisses her.

It’s different this time—harsher, like they’ve both been holding something back for too long. It steals Amelia’s breath, makes her knees feel weak. Her bag thuds against the wall as Monica presses her backward, and Amelia lets her. She’s not thinking clearly. She doesn’t want to. Monica’s lips are on hers and everything else fades.

A door creaks nearby, and they break apart abruptly. Monica grabs her hand and pulls her toward a janitor’s closet—dark, cramped, and probably a health code violation.

The door clicks shut behind them, and then they’re on each other again, hands tangled in hair and clothes and anything they can grab hold of. It’s messy and hungry and there’s no pretending anymore. No more smirks or sarcasm or denying what this is.

When they finally part, breathless and flushed, Amelia leans her forehead against Monica’s.

“So… that’s what we’re doing now?” she whispers.

Monica just grins, fingers still tangled in the hem of Amelia’s shirt. “I guess so.”

Neither of them says what they’re really thinking: that they’ve already lost control.

*-*-*

From that day onward, Monica and Amelia become a very specific kind of problem.

To the outside world, they’re still arch enemies—snapping at each other in hallways and rolling eyes across lecture rooms. Monica still calls Amelia “Harvard” just to get under her skin, and Amelia interrupts Monica in class just to rile her up. Everybody thinks they can’t stand each other.

Which is funny, considering how often they’re sneaking off to make out in utility closets and underused seminar rooms.

It starts to feel like a routine.

Amelia will roll her eyes at something Monica says during class. Monica will lean in close enough to whisper, “You’re really cute when you’re pretending not to care.” Amelia will bristle, look away… and then twenty minutes later they’ll be pressed up against a supply cabinet.

And it’s always like that. Tension thick as fog. Jokes layered with innuendo. Long looks held a little too long. Monica brushing past Amelia in the hallway, hand skimming her waist just barely enough to make her shiver.

They meet in secret, in shadowed corners of campus and back staircases and empty rooms, acting like they’re doing something shameful when it’s the only thing that makes Amelia feel alive.

One afternoon, between anatomy lab and clinical skills, Amelia finds herself cornered in one of the basement seminar rooms, pressed against the cool wall by the very source of her irritation and obsession.

"You can't just disappear after every class and then show up looking like—" Amelia starts, breath caught as Monica leans in.

"Like what?" Monica’s voice is low, teasing. She’s close enough now that Amelia can feel the heat radiating off her, smell her perfume—something citrusy and impossible to forget.

"Like you didn’t just ruin my ability to focus for the next two hours," Amelia mutters.

Monica grins. "Is that my fault or your lack of self-control?"

Amelia narrows her eyes. "You're insufferable."

"Say it again," Monica murmurs, her lips ghosting the shell of Amelia’s ear. "Maybe this time I'll believe you."

"You're—"

But the rest of Amelia’s sentence is swallowed by Monica’s kiss—fierce, hungry, and unapologetically familiar. Amelia’s hands slide up Monica’s waist, gripping the edge of her shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

They stumble backwards until Monica’s back hits the long seminar table. Monica spins them around and Amelia lifts herself slightly to sit on the table. Monica steps between her legs, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

"You drive me insane," Amelia gasps between kisses.

"Right back at you, Harvard."

Clothes are tugged out of place with practiced ease, mouths desperate and hands even more so. 

Monica’s trembling fingers brush over skin, across nipples and down the soft curve of her stomach, pausing just above where Amelia is already aching for her.

She guides Monica’s hand down impatiently and kisses her like she’s starving, like this is the only place she ever wants to be.

And maybe it is.

Later, when they’re lying half-dressed on the floor with Amelia’s head resting on Monica’s stomach and their fingers lazily intertwined, it’s quiet. Peaceful. Dangerous.

Because if Amelia’s honest, she could stay in this silence forever.

Which is exactly the problem.

“I love doing that to you.” Monica sighs contentedly.

Amelia tilts her head up slightly, her voice soft, testing the waters. “And what exactly is this that we’re doing?”

Monica’s hand stills against her skin. She doesn’t answer right away, and Amelia watches the rise and fall of her chest as she thinks. Finally, Monica sighs.

“I thought we were just… having fun,” she says gently, her tone light, careful. “I mean, it’s not serious, right? Friends with benefits?”

Amelia forces a smile, even as something in her chest pulls tight. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

She almost instinctively presses a kiss to Monica’s stomach as she gets up but she stops herself. She moves to put some distance between them and lets go of Monica’s hand, ignoring the ache it leaves when she pulls away. .

Whatever fluttered up inside her just now—she buries it. Deep.

This is fine. This is what she signed up for.

She’ll push everything else out of her mind.

At least, she’ll try.

*-*-*

At first, Amelia tries to dial it back—to compartmentalize. After all, Monica had been clear: friends with benefits. So that’s exactly what she leans into. No lingering after. No tangled fingers or forehead kisses or brushing hair behind ears like she actually gives a damn.

She keeps it mechanical.

Efficient. Like an equation.

Touch + friction + orgasm = goodbye.

It gets harder when Monica starts inviting her over.

It’s one thing sneaking off between lectures, hooking up in janitor closets or empty classrooms where the air still smells faintly of whiteboard markers and floor polish. It’s another thing entirely when Monica texts her on a random Thursday night with: Wanna come over? My roommate’s gone. And suddenly Amelia’s standing outside Monica’s dorm, heart thudding against her ribs like she’s on a first date instead of a booty call.

It throws her off balance. Because Monica’s bed has freshly folded laundry on it. There are framed pictures on the desk, fairy lights strung along the window. It’s intimate in a way that closets never were. Amelia hates it.

She stands frozen in the doorway, taking it all in—the soft lighting, the homey scent of vanilla, the glimpse into Monica’s life that she hadn’t asked for. Something clenches in her chest. Too personal. Too close.

“Nope,” she mutters under her breath, backing out into the hallway.

Monica appears behind her, slightly confused. “You okay?”

Amelia spins, grabs her by the hand, and pulls her back into the tiny shared living room just outside the bedroom. “I’d rather fuck you in here, that’s all.”

Monica raises a brow. “Okay…?”

But Amelia doesn’t give her time to question it. She grabs Monica by the collar and kisses her with a bruising hunger, one that leaves no space for breath or words. Monica responds with startled enthusiasm, hands finding their usual place at Amelia’s waist, but this time Amelia doesn’t pause to savor it.

She guides them toward the couch with sharp precision, yanking Monica’s shirt over her head and pressing her down, following with her own in one fluid movement. Their mouths clash again, messy and rushed, and Amelia is already working on Monica’s jeans before she even bothers to kick her own shoes off.

“Eager much?” Monica breathes, half-laughing as she lies back, her body already arching toward Amelia’s touch.

“Just getting what I came for,” Amelia says flatly, her tone clipped, devoid of its usual warmth. She pushes Monica’s legs apart and dips down without ceremony, her hands firm on Monica’s hips, pinning her in place. There’s no buildup, no slow burn. Just heat. Just intention.

Monica gasps and moans, back arching, hands threading into Amelia’s hair. But Amelia stays quiet. Detached. Focused. Like this is a task to complete, a lab to pass. Her mind is a calculated blur of movements, each touch calibrated for efficiency, for release—hers and Monica’s.

She doesn’t kiss Monica again when she brings her over the edge. She doesn’t whisper anything sweet or trace slow lines across her skin. She just watches, counts the seconds, like this is some clinical reaction she’s eliciting, like this is all she’s good for now. It’s sex, not connection. Passion, not intimacy.

When Monica tries to pull her in for a kiss, Amelia dodges it, slipping off the couch to retrieve her clothes instead. She dresses quickly, not looking at Monica.

“That was… intense,” Monica says, propped on one elbow, breath still ragged.

“It was fine,” Amelia replies, tying her shoelace.

Monica raises a brow. “Fine?”

“What? You got off, didn’t you?” Amelia shrugs.

Monica blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Yeah. I just—you’re being weird.”

Amelia flashes a tight smile. “Friends with benefits, right? Just keeping it simple.”

And with that, she grabs her bag and leaves, not waiting for a reply. Her heart pounds all the way home, the echo of Monica’s body still on her hands, her lips. But she doesn’t let herself feel it. She doesn’t let herself feel anything at all.

Because feeling? Feeling is where it all goes to hell.

Her new tactic works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because no matter how fast Amelia tries to fuck her way out of her own feelings, something always gives.

Like the night Monica grazes her thumb over the edge of Amelia’s jaw after they’ve both come down from something intense. The gesture is so soft it makes Amelia’s heart stutter. Or the way Monica murmurs her name like it means something just before she falls asleep on Amelia’s chest. Amelia stops breathing when that happens. Not from panic—but because it feels like the world has narrowed down to this single heartbeat between them.

Eventually, the walls start to crack.

The hookups become slower, less frantic. Amelia starts bringing her notes over to Monica’s to study. Monica makes coffee. They argue over cases and laugh about professors. The sex starts happening in daylight. Sometimes they don't even have sex. They just lie in bed and talk. Monica’s bedroom which she once aggressively avoided is now her safe place, her second home.

By the end of spring semester, everyone knows Amelia and Monica are friends. Real friends. They eat lunch together, they sit next to each other in class, and they bicker over study flashcards in the library. Monica pretends to hate the way Amelia eats her sandwiches crust-first. Amelia pretends not to care when Monica chews her pen caps. They're seen as an unlikely duo—an uptight wannabe neuro specialist and the effortlessly cool future peds surgeon—but no one questions it.

No one suspects they’re hooking up.

No one knows Amelia's starting to fall in love with her.

She doesn’t even notice when she starts treating Monica differently. The way she lets herself trace lazy circles on her hip while they’re talking in bed. The way her eyes search Monica’s face for reactions when she tells a joke. She starts dreaming about doing normal things—dates, road trips, introducing Monica to her family. And she’s thinking—really thinking—about asking Monica out.

Until Winston ruins it.

It’s late on a Friday and they’re walking home from the library when Winston mentions it casually, mid-conversation about plans for the weekend.

“I think I’m gonna head over to Beltran’s later.”

Amelia looks over sharply. “Why?”

He shrugs. “She asked me if I wanted to hang out. Said she’s got tequila and leftover Chinese takeout.”

Amelia’s brows furrow. “Wait… why would you be going over there for that?”

Winston shoots her a confused look, then chuckles lightly, like she’s messing with him. “Uh… you know we’ve been hooking up, right?”

The words hit her like a sucker punch — unexpected and sharp. Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. The world doesn’t stop, but it sure as hell stutters.

“I figured you’d know. You guys are close, right?”

Amelia forces a tight smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

Winston keeps walking, unfazed. “It’s not serious. Never was. She made that pretty clear.”

Amelia nods stiffly, trying to swallow around the lump rising in her throat. She forces out a quiet, “Right. Of course.”

But it burns all the same.

She doesn’t wait. She finds herself heading to Monica’s dorm on autopilot. She bangs on the door and ignores the fact Monica looks surprised to see her. She also doesn’t even bother checking if Monica’s roommate is around because right now she couldn’t care less. 

“You’re sleeping with Winston?” she demands, voice sharp and cracking.

Monica looks caught off guard. “What? Why does that—why does it matter?”

“Because you told me this thing between us wasn’t serious,” Amelia hisses. “And I was stupid enough to believe that meant I wasn’t supposed to care. But I do. I care, okay!? And you could have at least told me.”

Monica’s expression hardens. “I never lied to you, Amelia. You knew the deal. You said you were fine with it.”

“Well, I’m not fine with it,” Amelia spits out. “I haven’t been for a while.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Monica exhales and looks away, her voice quieter now. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I told you that from the beginning.”

“Yeah, well,” Amelia says bitterly, “feelings don’t exactly ask for permission before showing up.”

Monica nods slowly, then meets her eyes. “Then maybe we should stop. Before it gets messier.”

Amelia swallows hard, her throat burning. “It’s already messy.”

Monica doesn’t deny it.

She just stands there, arms crossed, gaze flickering like she’s trying to keep hold of her carefully built indifference. Amelia’s chest is heaving, her heart pounding against the cage of her ribs.

“You could’ve just told me,” Amelia says, her voice low but shaking. 

Monica’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t think I had to. We said we weren’t doing feelings.”

“Yeah, well—” Amelia bites her lip to stop the tears falling, “Maybe I did something stupid like fall for you. Maybe I want to ask you out on a date, to actually be something with you.”

The air crackles between them, too loud, too heavy.

Monica’s voice is quiet. “Amelia…”

“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “Don’t. Don’t say anything.”

Her hands are trembling now, fury and heartbreak spilling over in equal measure. She heads for the door, but turns back at the last second, voice sharp and laced with venom.

“I’ll get out of your way then. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your night. Winston will be here soon to screw you, right?”

Monica flinches, eyes wide.

Amelia doesn’t wait for a response. The door slams behind her.

*-*-*

The absence of Monica Beltran is loud.

It’s not like she was ever quiet — not with her teasing comments in class or the way she always made herself known in a room — but now, her silence is even louder. Amelia feels it everywhere. In the empty corners of lecture halls, in the cafeteria line, in the absence of a look, a smirk, a brush of hands.

They don’t speak.

Not in study groups. Not passing in the hall. Not even when they’re paired together in clinical skills lab and have to take blood pressure readings from one another. Monica mutters a number under her breath, not meeting Amelia’s eyes, and Amelia records it on the sheet with fingers clenched so tightly her pen almost snaps. Unintentionally for once.

She pretends it doesn’t matter. That she’s fine. That the heat in her chest isn’t longing, or heartbreak, or humiliation, but something clinical and contained. She’s back to showing up early to class, throwing herself into study sessions with Winston (though not without some awkward readjusting there too), and burying herself in textbooks like she’s trying to excavate the version of herself who existed before Monica Beltran unraveled her.

The worst part? She misses her. Not just the sex — although yeah, she misses that too — but everything else. The banter. The quiet moments that stretched between them in Monica’s dorm, knees brushing beneath the blanket, fingers tangled like they couldn’t help it. She misses the way Monica used to touch her like she was something soft, like she mattered. And now? Now she’s just someone Monica used to hook up with. Another med school blip.

Amelia finds herself pausing outside the student union one afternoon after class, watching Monica from a distance. She’s laughing at something one of their classmates said, eyes crinkling, head tossed back. For a second, Amelia sees the version of her from those late-night study sessions, the one who whispered stupid jokes into her neck and stayed in bed longer than she said she would. It punches the breath out of her.

She turns away.

She tries sleeping with other people. Boys, girls — a couple classmates, a bartender from that dive bar near campus, even a TA from a different department she meets at a trivia night. It’s not like she’s looking for a relationship; she just wants to feel something that isn’t Monica . But none of them come close. None of them know her rhythms, the way Monica did. None of them know how to touch her with both confidence and care, like they’d memorized every inch of her. With everyone else, it feels like a performance — a well-rehearsed scene she’s tired of acting out. Every time, she’s left colder than when she started.

Tonight she’s sleeping with no one. She drinks two glasses of wine alone in her dorm and doesn’t cry. Not technically. But her pillow’s damp anyway.

*-*-*

The party is already loud when Amelia walks in, and she instantly regrets coming, but she figures she has to celebrate the end of second year in some way. It’s been a tough end to the year, and she’s hoping that some fun with her friends tonight will help her to finally stop thinking about Monica. But as the music pulses and laughter echoes around her, all she feels is restless.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed that it was this exact party last year—the end of first year—where everything with Monica had first begun. Where flirtation had turned to something heavier, where a glance had led to a kiss, and a kiss had led to everything else. And now, one year later, they stood at the end of second year, practically strangers again. The weight of what’s changed settles heavily on her chest. She’s here, going through the motions like she’s supposed to, but her eyes are already scanning the room, not for friends or drinks or laughter—but for her. Always for her.

And then she sees her..

Wearing that same black top Amelia always loved—the one that clung to her like a secret. Her hair’s pulled back in a casual ponytail, a cup in hand as she laughs at something someone says. She looks easy. Light. Unbothered.

Amelia hates how much it still affects her.

Later, after a few drinks and too many failed attempts at distraction, she finds herself outside, leaning against the porch railing, watching the night blur around her. She’s halfway through her drink when the door creaks behind her.

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Monica says softly.

Amelia doesn’t look at her. “Didn’t think you were looking.”

Monica sighs. “I was.”

A long silence stretches between them.

“I miss you,” Monica says eventually, voice quiet.

She looks beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

Amelia blinks. “Is this the part where you pretend the last six months didn’t happen?”

“No,” Monica says softly. “This is the part where I admit I was wrong.”

Amelia’s heart thuds against her ribcage.

Monica runs a hand through her hair, nervous for the first time. “Can we talk? Away from here?”

Amelia studies her for a long moment, then nods.

They slip out the door without another word, walking down the familiar ivy-lined path toward the quiet patch of grass behind the building.

Monica's eyes flicker over Amelia as she slowly sinks down onto the grass beside her, the night stretching quiet and wide above them. The stars are visible here—so much clearer than from their dorm windows—and the cool spring air is soft against their skin. The party’s noise still hums faintly from a distance, but here, tucked behind the ivy-covered wall that lines the back of the med campus, it feels like the rest of the world has melted away.

They sit in silence for a few moments, staring up at the sky, until Monica exhales softly.

“You ever wonder what’s out there?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“In the stars?” Amelia murmurs, glancing sideways at her.

Monica nods. “Yeah. Like… parallel universes. Alternate lives. Us, but different. I think about it a lot.”

Amelia swallows, her throat tight. “What would we be, in another universe?”

Monica looks over at her, eyes searching. “Maybe we’d get it right.”

The words hit Amelia square in the chest. She’s not sure what to say, not sure what this moment is, but she doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking too soon.

“I’ve been such a coward,” Monica says, her voice shaking slightly. “I told myself I didn’t want anything serious. That I needed to focus. That this—us—was just… temporary. But I lied.”

Amelia’s breath hitches. “Monica—”

“I’ve liked you since the beginning,” she says, finally turning to face her. “Even when we hated each other. Especially then. You got under my skin. You still do.”

“I’m not exactly easy,” Amelia says, trying to lighten the mood, her heart thundering in her chest.

“I don’t want easy,” Monica replies immediately. “I want you.”

They sit with that for a moment, letting it settle between them, heavier than anything they’ve said before.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” Amelia says quietly. “A lot. I didn’t know if it would ever happen.”

Monica nudges her knee gently. “So… ask me out.”

Amelia blinks. “What?”

“The date,” Monica says, her voice softer now, almost nervous. “You said you wanted to take me on one. So do it. Ask me out. We can go right now.”

Amelia laughs, startled but charmed. “Monica, it’s almost midnight.”

“All the best adventures start at midnight,” Monica grins, already standing and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself. “So, Dr. Shepherd, are you asking me out or not?”

Amelia blushes at the name. She stands too, heart hammering as she offers her hand. She clears her throat jokingly, “Monica Beltran… will you go on a date with me?”

They end up walking for nearly twenty minutes, away from the campus, toward the edge of the river. Monica finds a quiet spot where they can lie back on the grass and look up at the stars again. They talk about everything—their families, their favorite childhood memories, their dreams beyond med school. It’s stuff they mostly already know but something about tonight makes it all feel different. More intimate. Like seeing the same picture in a new light and noticing details you missed the first time. It feels like starting over and continuing all at once.

Amelia listens to Monica talk about her sister and two brothers, about Florida summers and the way she used to sneak into the neighbor’s pool as a kid. “You should come visit this summer,” she says. “Stay with me. We could lie on the beach all day, no textbooks, no early morning seminars. Just you and me.”

Amelia smiles, heart pounding in her chest. “Yeah? You really want me there?”

Monica turns her head, their eyes meeting in the dark. “Of course I do.”

“Then I’m in.” 

“Florida’s always felt like a bubble,” Monica says, “You know, sunshine, beaches, fake smiles. I’m excited for you to see the real parts this summer. The parts I never showed anyone.”

Amelia’s heart flutters. “You’re sure you want me to come?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Monica replies, reaching out to take her hand.

Their fingers link easily, like they’ve always belonged that way.

“You know this is going to change everything,” Amelia says, half in warning, half in wonder.

“I hope so,” Monica whispers. “God, I hope so.”

Under the stars, with the river reflecting the sky like a mirror, it feels like the beginning of something. Something that might just last.

They lie in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the air between them warm despite the cool night. Monica shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow, eyes tracing over Amelia’s face. There's a quiet nervousness in her expression, and for once, Monica Beltran—always confident, always composed—looks uncertain.

Amelia notices. Feels it mirrored in her own chest.

“What?” she whispers, barely audible.

Monica gives a half-smile, shy in a way Amelia's never seen before. “I kind of want to kiss you right now,” she admits, voice barely a breath.

Amelia has to bite back a laugh—not out of mockery, but because the moment is so absurdly tender. After everything they’ve done—after all the ways their mouths have met in far less innocent circumstances—Monica is nervous to kiss her. It’s sweet. Unexpectedly sweet. And it makes Amelia’s heart twist in the best possible way.

“Then kiss me,” she murmurs, voice steadier than she feels.

Their lips meet slowly—gently—as if they’re kissing for the first time all over again. And in a way, they are. This time, it’s not fueled by tension or secrecy or desperation. It’s soft and tentative, filled with nerves and hope, a kiss that says I want to try instead of I need you now . When they part, Amelia exhales shakily, her forehead resting against Monica’s.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “That was... something.”

Monica smiles, her voice light but sincere,“Yeah. It was.”

And they stay there, tangled under the stars, everything feeling brand new.

*-*-*

Amelia steps out of the tiny regional airport and is hit with a wall of heat that feels nothing like the breezy summer evenings in Philly. The air is thick, heavy with humidity, and the sun already threatens to melt her into the pavement. She's barely taken two steps when she hears it.

“Over here!”

Monica’s waving from across the parking lot, already dressed in shorts and a tank top, sunglasses perched in her hair. Amelia watches her jog toward her, all long legs and golden skin and barely concealed excitement, and something stirs in her chest that’s been simmering since they said goodbye three weeks ago.

“God, it’s hot,” Amelia says as Monica pulls her into a hug.

“You get used to it,” Monica grins, sliding her fingers around Amelia’s wrist and tugging her toward the car. “And besides, we’ve got AC, a pool, and a freezer full of popsicles. You’ll survive.”

The drive to Monica’s family home is filled with music from an old mixtape in the car stereo—scratched CDs and handwritten track lists, all sun-drenched nostalgia. They sing along with the windows down, hair blowing wildly, hands brushing on the center console every few minutes. Neither pulls away.

Monica’s house is a charming, beachy two-story with pale yellow siding and a porch that wraps around the front. Her parents are warm and welcoming—her dad jokes about Amelia's firm handshake, and her mom hugs her like they’ve known each other for years.

The days blur into a sun-soaked dream. Mornings are spent swimming or reading on the deck, afternoons filled with lazy drives along the coast or spontaneous ice cream trips. At night, they curl up on Monica’s bed with the windows open and the sound of cicadas humming through the trees.

They kiss endlessly, talk late into the night, and sleep tangled in each other’s arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not about sex—not like it used to be. They still want each other, of course, but everything has shifted. The urgency is gone. The need to prove something, to hold back emotion—it’s all fallen away.

One night, as they float in Monica’s backyard pool beneath a sky littered with stars, Amelia murmurs, “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Monica swims closer, fingertips trailing along Amelia’s arm. “Me too,” she whispers.

There’s a long silence between them, but it isn’t heavy. It’s filled with quiet awe, with the wonder of finally getting it right.

Amelia doesn’t say I love you . Not yet. But she thinks it. Every day. Every time Monica reaches for her hand or laughs mid-sentence or kisses the corner of her mouth before anyone else is awake.

And then one day at the beach, it happens.

They’ve been up since 4:30 a.m., bundled in sweatshirts and beach towels, driving with the windows cracked and hot gas station coffee between them. Monica had nudged Amelia awake with a whisper and a smile, saying, “I want to show you something. My favorite spot.”

Now they’re barefoot in the sand, walking toward the water’s edge while the first hints of dawn tint the sky in lavender and rose gold. Monica leads the way, her fingers curled tightly around Amelia’s, guiding her down a winding path until they reach a secluded patch of shoreline.

“This is it,” Monica says quietly, stopping just before the tide reaches their toes.

Amelia glances around. It’s peaceful here. Remote. The waves are gentle, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and nostalgia. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, and when she looks back at Monica, she finds her already watching her.

Monica’s eyes are soft, almost glassy. “I used to come here all the time when I was younger. Whenever I needed to think. Or run away from my brothers,” she adds with a small laugh.

Amelia smiles, squeezing her hand. “Well thank you for bringing me.”

Monica’s expression changes, like she’s holding something fragile in her chest. “You know,” she says, “I’ve said a lot of reckless things in my life. But this might be the scariest one.”

Amelia’s heart skips. “What is?”

“I think I love you,” Monica says, voice trembling slightly. “Actually… I know I do. I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I love the way you hum when you’re reading,” Monica says quietly, her voice almost swept away by the breeze. “And how you get this little crease between your brows when you’re studying. I love that you steal my fries but always offer me the last bite of your sandwich like it’s some noble sacrifice.”

Amelia’s lips twitch into a smile, but Monica keeps going, her voice a little steadier now.

“I love how you argue with TV characters out loud. And how you never take your shoes off properly—you just sort of kick them off and leave them like tiny crime scenes around your room. I love that you always remember my coffee order, but forget where you parked.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “I love all the small things. The ones no one else would even notice. But I do. I notice everything about you.”

Amelia is stunned. She feels like she’s been cracked open in the best possible way, like Monica has found every dark, uncertain place in her and gently kissed it warm.

She reaches for Monica’s hand, threading their fingers together. “You picked a hell of a place to say it,” she whispers. “But you’re not alone in it.”

Monica blinks. “Yeah?”

“I love you too,” Amelia says, her voice steady and full of something she’s never given anyone before. “So much I don’t even know what to do with it most days.”

Monica exhales a breathless laugh and wraps her arms around Amelia’s waist, pulling her close as the sun spills gold across the horizon. They kiss, slow and full of feeling, their silhouettes framed by light, and for once, the future doesn’t feel like a question mark.

It just feels like this .

*-*-*

Monica and Amelia return to Philadelphia at the end of August, sun-kissed and madly in love. They move into a tiny off-campus apartment just a few blocks from Penn’s medical campus. It’s nothing fancy—two rooms and a creaky radiator—but it’s theirs. Monica immediately strings up fairy lights and unpacks her stack of philosophy books. Amelia claims the right side of the closet and hangs a picture of her and Derek on the wall above their desk.

They fall into domesticity so quickly it startles them both. Mornings are filled with coffee made too strong and rushed kisses before class. Evenings are spent cooking pasta together in their comically small kitchen, their elbows constantly bumping, Monica stealing bites off Amelia’s plate and Amelia pretending to be annoyed. They argue about what movie to rent on DVD—Monica always wants a romcom nowadays; Amelia always ends up giving in.

They’re happy. Really, truly happy.

Third year is intense—longer hospital shifts, clinical rotations, and the mounting pressure of choosing where to apply for residency—but they handle it side by side. When Amelia comes home late, Monica has leftovers waiting and the electric blanket turned on. When Monica has a tough day, Amelia lets her vent until she falls asleep mid-sentence on the couch.

They don’t keep their relationship a secret anymore. It’s not like they’re announcing it with balloons, but it’s clear enough to anyone paying attention. 

On Amelia’s birthday in November, Monica makes her pancakes in the shape of hearts and hangs a hand-drawn banner across the living room. She gives her a tiny silver bracelet with a charm shaped like a star. “To remember our first date,” she says, and Amelia tears up before tackling her with a hug.

They go out to dinner that night—cheap wine, greasy fries, and fancy dessert—and walk home with their fingers intertwined, the cold air biting at their cheeks. Amelia can’t stop smiling. It’s the best birthday she’s ever had.

She thinks maybe this is what the right time looks like. Like a quiet, steady sort of love built in the spaces between lectures and long exhausting shifts and 12 hour study sessions. A love that grows not despite their ambitions, but alongside them.

And Amelia figures that if there really are parallel universes out there, she’s definitely in the right one. 

*-*-*

The call comes in the middle of the night in March of 2005.

Amelia doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes to Monica shaking her gently, voice low and trembling. There’s something in her eyes that makes Amelia bolt upright before a single word is said.

“Amelia,” Monica whispers, holding out the phone. “It’s your mom.”

Something drops in Amelia’s stomach—cold and final. Why would her mom be calling this late? She takes the receiver with a hand that barely feels like hers, pressing it to her ear.

She hears the words—Derek’s gone, he’s gone, I’m so sorry—and her body goes still.

Her mother’s voice is shaking on the other end as she explains, haltingly, that Derek had been unraveling ever since the end of his marriage. That finding out Addison had slept with his best friend, Mark, had destroyed him. That even though he tried to forgive, tried to move on, it was like something inside him had cracked and never quite healed.

Amelia listens numbly as her mother sobs. And then, without warning, she sets the phone down carefully, like breaking it would make it more real, and stares at the wall.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She just sets the phone down carefully, like breaking it would make it more real, and stares at the wall.

Monica kneels beside her, reaching out slowly. “Amelia…”

Amelia blinks once, then collapses into her arms in a heap.

The days blur after that. Monica makes the flight arrangements, calls in Amelia’s professors, handles all the logistics with a steadiness Amelia cannot muster. Amelia just…floats. It’s like she’s underwater, and Monica is the only one holding the lifeline.

The funeral is like an out of body experience that she’s observing.

Black dress, stiff hugs, murmured condolences from people she barely knows. She watches as they lower Derek into the ground, but it doesn’t feel real. None of it does.

Monica is with her the entire time—her anchor in the storm. She’s there holding her hand during the service, rubbing soothing circles into her back each time Amelia breaks down. She shields her from conversation she wants to avoid from overbearing family members. She holds her steady.

But it isn’t until they’re back at Amelia’s family home—quiet, too quiet—that it all hits her.

She sits on the edge of her childhood bed, still in her funeral clothes, the weight of the day pressing down on her chest like cement. Monica crouches in front of her, gently slipping off her shoes, then standing to unzip her dress without saying a word. She replaces it with one of Amelia’s old sweatshirts, and helps her climb under the covers.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and Amelia stares at the ceiling for a long time before finally whispering, “I don’t understand.”

Monica looks up from where she’s curled beside her on the bed. “What don’t you understand?”

Amelia swallows. “How he could be gone. Just like that. He was Derek. He was brilliant. He was the one who always told me to keep going. The one who always had answers.”

Monica shifts closer, her hand wrapping gently around Amelia’s. “Even people who have all the answers can be in pain. Especially those people.”

Amelia’s voice cracks. “I keep thinking… maybe if I’d called more. If I’d gone home more. Maybe I could’ve done something.”

“You don’t have to carry that,” Monica says softly. “You loved him. He knew that. None of this is on you.”

“I can’t stop replaying it,” Amelia whispers. “The way Mom’s voice sounded on the phone. The way she said it. And then seeing him there in the casket. He looked like he was sleeping.”

Monica squeezes her hand. “I know. I know it’s all you see right now. But you’re going to come back from this. You will.”

Amelia closes her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks silently. “He was supposed to be okay. I thought he’d be okay after the divorce. I thought time would fix it. “Addison sleeping with Mark… it shattered him. And I’ve just…I’ve been so angry with him,” Amelia admits. “For leaving us. For giving up. For not fighting harder. How selfish is that?”

Monica moves closer, wrapping her arms tightly around Amelia, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You’re not selfish, baby. You’re allowed to be angry. And heartbroken. And confused. You’re allowed to feel all of it.”

Amelia presses her forehead into Monica’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to breathe without him.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Monica whispers. “Just one breath at a time. You’re not alone, okay? I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

They sit like that for what feels like hours—Amelia wrapped in Monica’s arms, held together only by the steady, quiet strength of the girl who’s never once let go.

Later that night, as the sky turns dark and the weight of the day settles over them, Monica gently brushes a tear from Amelia’s cheek and says, “I was thinking… maybe we could get some fireworks.” Amelia looks up at her, confused, and Monica adds softly, “You told me Derek used to set them off with you. To help you not be afraid. I thought maybe we could light a few for him. Let him know you’re thinking about him.” The idea knocks the breath out of Amelia—so simple, but so thoughtful. She nods, throat too tight to speak, eyes stinging with fresh tears. It’s the kind of gesture she’ll never forget.

Afterward, Monica brings her home to Philadelphia. Amelia barely speaks. She barely eats. She cries at odd hours, wakes screaming from nightmares. Monica never leaves. She stays beside her through every breakdown, every silence, every impulsive decision to drink when it all becomes too much.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Monica pleads one night, her voice hoarse as she pries a half-empty bottle of vodka from Amelia’s hands. “This isn’t you.”

Amelia laughs, a hollow, broken sound. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” Monica insists. “I know you’re in pain. I know you’re hurting. But this isn’t going to fix it.”

Amelia glares. “Don’t talk to me like I’m your patient.”

“You’re not. You’re the person I love,” Monica snaps back, and then instantly softens. “Which is why I’m not letting you destroy yourself.”

Monica sleeps beside her every night, keeps track of her assignments, drags her to classes when she doesn’t want to go. She becomes Amelia’s nurse, therapist, tutor, girlfriend—everything.

And Amelia lets her.

She lets Monica cook for her, bathe her when she’s too exhausted to stand, whisper reassuring things when Amelia breaks down over nothing. Amelia clings to her like a lifeline, like she might dissolve without her. She needs her in a way that’s no longer healthy, and somewhere deep down, she knows it.

But she can’t stop.

Because Monica’s the only thing that makes the grief bearable.

And Monica? Monica stays. Even when it gets too heavy. Even when Amelia lashes out. Even when it starts to wear her down.

They don’t talk about that part. They just exist together in the silence between tragedy and survival.

And for now, that’s enough.

*-*-*

At first, Amelia thought quitting drinking would be the hardest part. But with Monica’s help, she manages it. The wine bottles disappear from their apartment. Monica stocks the fridge with diet coke and flavored water, learns Amelia’s favorite teas, and makes a habit of sitting with her in silence when the cravings hit hardest. It’s not easy, but it feels possible—because Monica makes it possible.

Only, sobriety doesn’t fix everything. If anything, it just peels back the curtain on how badly she had come to need Monica. Not want. Need . Monica had become the air she breathed, the ground beneath her feet, the only thing that made her feel tethered to the world after Derek’s death. 

Monica doesn’t just make her feel safe. Monica is safety.

Amelia stops studying as much. She isn’t going to lectures consistently. She’s skipping study groups. Not because she was lazy or disinterested—but because every free moment is spent wrapped around Monica, and it feels more fulfilling than anything else could.

And, truthfully, even before Derek’s death, Amelia had been distracted. She hadn’t been performing her best academically since the start of their relationship. Monica had consumed her even then—her attention, her ambition, her time. She wanted to be excellent, but her priorities had shifted.

Their love was a roaring fire and Amelia couldn’t help but throw herself into it, even if it meant getting burned.

One Saturday evening, they were supposed to go out with friends—Monica with a group from her anatomy class, Amelia with a few people from her clinical prep group. They were both halfway dressed when Amelia, curled up on the couch in Monica’s oversized hoodie, looks up with tired eyes.

"Can we not go?" she murmurs, her voice quiet, childlike.

Monica turns from where she was applying mascara in the mirror. "You don’t want to see your friends?"

Amelia shakes her head. "I just... don’t feel like it. Can’t we just stay in? Watch a movie or something? Just us?"

Monica hesitated. "Babe, we’ve bailed the last three times. I haven’t seen anyone outside of class in weeks."

Amelia’s eyes drop to the blanket clutched in her hands. Her voice barely a whisper. "I don’t want you to leave me."

That stops Monica in her tracks.

Amelia looks up, eyes glassy. "I just want to be with you. I feel better when you’re here. Everything feels easier. Safer. You make everything make sense."

Monica walks over, kneeling beside the couch and tucking a strand of hair behind Amelia’s ear.

"Okay," she whispers. "I’ll stay."

The relief is immediate. She leans into Monica’s touch, eyes closing with a contented sigh.

It was the fourth social plan they’d canceled.

And Amelia hadn’t gone to her last three study sessions. Monica had brushed it off at first—grief, recovery, healing. But now, she was starting to realize.

Amelia needs her too much.

And Monica doesn’t know how to give her space without breaking her heart.

*-*-*

It’s Winston who finally says it out loud.

They’re sitting on a campus bench one afternoon. Monica had expected small talk. She didn’t expect an intervention.

“She’s not okay, Monica,” Winston says, his voice calm but unmistakably serious. “And I don’t think you are either.”

Monica stiffens. “We’re managing.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re enabling her. You think you're helping, but you’re part of the problem.”

 “That’s not fair—”

“She’s failing, Monica. She skipped three classes last week. She bombed the neuro exam, and you know that’s her thing. That’s where she shines.”

Monica crosses her arms, folding into herself. “She’s grieving. She just lost her brother.”

Winston leans in slightly, eyes sharp. “She was slipping before Derek died. You know it. She hasn’t been herself in months. Everything’s about you. If you’re not in the room, she’s lost. And you—you stopped caring about your own goals to manage hers.”

“I didn’t—” she weakly protests.

“Monica,” Winston says gently, but firmly. “You dropped out of the student research program. You turned down that summer internship. You haven’t talked about your residency plans in weeks.”

Monica swallows hard. “Amelia will bounce back. She just needs more time. And once she’s better I can focus on myself again.”

“She won’t,” Winston cuts in. “Because she already stopped caring long before her brother died. You remember what she was like in first year—ruthless. Brilliant. The top of every damn class.”

“I do,” Monica whispers.

“Then tell me honestly—when was the last time you saw that version of her?” He waits, and when Monica doesn’t answer, he continues. “She loves you, I get it. And you obviously love her.. But this thing between you two—it’s not healthy anymore. You’ve become her world. And that’s not romantic, Monica. That’s dangerous.”

Monica looks away, blinking fast. “So what? You think I should just leave her? Abandon her?”

“I think if you really love her, you’ll help her find herself again—even if that means letting her go.”

Monica’s silence is answer enough.. She stands abruptly, murmuring something about needing to get to the library, even though they both know she won’t.

That evening, Monica finds Amelia curled up on the couch, surrounded by textbooks she hasn’t opened. The television plays some old rerun in the background. Monica sits beside her, silent for a long time.

“How was your day?” Amelia asks, leaning into her instinctively, head against Monica’s shoulder.

Monica doesn’t answer right away. She wraps an arm around her instead, kissing the top of Amelia’s head.

“Mon?”

“You missed your study group again today.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t go to class.”

Amelia sighs, burying her face into Monica’s neck. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not as long as I have you.” Amelia’s voice is soft, childlike. “As long as I have you, I’m okay.”

If only she knew that words that she intended to make Monica feel loved were instead crushing her. 

“Amelia… what’s going on with your grades?”

Amelia pulls back slightly, frowning. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re going to fail out. You’ve missed too many assignments. You’re falling behind in everything.”

Amelia looks at her like she doesn’t understand the concern. “So what? I don’t care.”

Monica’s breath catches.

“You don’t need to be a doctor to be happy, Monica,” Amelia says quietly. “I don’t need all that if I have you.”

“That’s not healthy babe, and you know it,” Monica whispers.

Amelia leans in. “It’s the truth.”

“No, it’s not.” Monica pulls away completely now, standing up. “You’re not okay, Amelia. You’re not yourself anymore. And I’m scared I’m part of the reason.”

Amelia's chest tightens. Panic flashes across her face—raw and immediate—like she knows exactly where this conversation is headed and wants to slam the brakes before it gets there. She stands quickly, reaching out for Monica’s hand, desperate to pull her back not just physically, but emotionally.

Her voice is soft, almost pleading. “I love you, you know,” Amelia whispers, like if she says it gently enough, it’ll anchor them back to the version of themselves that didn’t have to navigate this pain.

To her relief, Monica relents, She pulls Amelia in and kisses the top of her head and Amelia can breathe again.

“I love you too.” 

She falls asleep with her hand laced in Monica’s like she’s afraid she’ll vanish if she lets go.

Amelia doesn’t go to class the next day, but she does do something productive. Something that Monica can be proud of. 

“Hey,” Amelia says, brightening when she sees Monica walking through the door. “I made dinner.See, I don’t just sit around doing nothing. I made you dinner. It’s cold now, but I can reheat—”

“Amelia.”

The way Monica says her name makes Amelia’s smile falter.

Monica sits down across from her, not beside her. That alone is enough to make Amelia’s stomach drop.

“We need to talk,” Monica says gently.

A beat. Two.

“No,” Amelia says, already shaking her head. “Whatever it is, don’t.”

“I’m transferring to Columbia for final year.”

The words land like a slap. Amelia stares at her, stunned.

“No, you’re not,” she whispers. “You can’t.”

“I have to.” Monica’s voice cracks. “This isn’t working.”

“It is,” Amelia insists, tears already filling her eyes. “We’re working. We’re in love, Monica.”

“I know,” Monica says. “And that’s the problem here. But it’s not love if it’s drowning you. You’re losing yourself. You don’t care about anything but me.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is. You bombed your exam last week. You told me you didn’t need to be a doctor anymore because you had me. Amelia…” Monica leans forward, her voice breaking. “That’s not healthy.”

“You promised me forever,” Amelia chokes out. “You said we’d always have each other.”

“And we will. Just not right now. Not like this.”

Silence stretches between them like an open wound. Amelia tries again, her voice shaking.

Amelia shakes her head. “Don’t do this. Please don’t.”

“I have to,” Monica says, tears rising in her throat. “Because if I don’t, you’re going to lose everything. And I can’t be the reason you give up on your future.”

Amelia stands too now, eyes wide with panic. “No. No, you’re not doing this. We’re in this together, remember? You said you loved me.”

“I do,” Monica says brokenly. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Tears spill down Amelia’s cheeks as she steps forward. “Don’t go. Please. I’ll get it together. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t go.”

But Monica is crying too now. “I wish I could stay. But if I do… I’m scared you’ll lose everything. And I’ll lose you anyway.”

There’s nothing left to say. Amelia collapses into Monica’s arms, sobbing. They cling to each other so tight, like they can somehow undo everything with the strength of this one final embrace.

But they both know the truth.

Some love stories aren’t meant to survive when one person forgets how to stand on their own.

And for Monica, loving Amelia means letting her go.

*-*-*

A Monica-less Amelia is an Amelia she never wants to meet again. The silence in their once happy home is deafening—no Monica humming from the kitchen, no teasing voice calling her name from the bedroom, no soft laughter echoing in her ears. Just the dull throb of heartbreak.

She skips classes for the rest of the week. Can’t bring herself to enter the library where they used to study. Can’t face the cafeteria where Monica used to steal fries off her plate like they were hers by right.

Winston finds her one afternoon, curled up in their apartment wearing the same hoodie for the third day in a row, staring blankly at the TV without even registering what’s on.

He sits beside her, wordless at first. Just offers a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“She’s gone,” Amelia whispers. Her voice is hoarse from crying.

“I know.”

“I begged her.”

“I know that too.”

Amelia finally looks at him, eyes red and raw. “Was she right?”

Winston hesitates, but only for a moment. “Yeah. She was.”

And for the first time, Amelia doesn’t fight him on it. She just closes her eyes and lets the truth settle over her like a heavy blanket.

“She was my whole world,” she says, voice cracking. “And I let her be.”

Winston doesn’t try to offer false comfort. He just puts an arm around her shoulders and holds her while she cries again, the sound hollow and exhausted.

“She loved you,” he says after a while. “But you forgot to love yourself too.”

Amelia nods slowly. Because deep down, she knows it’s true.

She’d put Monica on a pedestal, built her life around her like scaffolding on a crumbling building. And now that Monica had walked away, the structure was collapsing.

Monica had left so Amelia would do better—but the irony was, she only did worse. Monica had believed that breaking things off would help Amelia find herself, regain her focus, get back on track. But without her, Amelia was even more lost. The heartbreak hollowed her out. Third year slips away in a haze of numb days and sleepless nights. When fourth year begins, she tries—she really does—but she’s barely holding it together. She scrapes by, just enough to stay enrolled. But it’s not enough. When the match list is posted, her name isn’t on it. She doesn’t graduate. Doesn’t become a doctor.

Monica does.

She sees it in a letter sent to the old address they once shared—Monica’s acceptance into residency, a prestigious program in Miami. A congratulatory note from the school accidentally forwarded to Amelia. There’s a photo of her attached to the bulletin board in the student lounge, smiling with her new badge.

She looks happy.

Amelia doesn’t stay long enough to look twice.

She moves out a week later, not even bothering to pack properly. She leaves behind textbooks, posters, an old hoodie Monica once claimed for herself and never gave back until she left forever. She doesn’t want reminders. 

She throws the bracelet Monica bought her in the trash. She doesn’t want to remember their first date, how they talked under the stars and considered the multiverse theory. She had been so sure she was in the right place at the right time, but it turns out this universe had failed her.

Or maybe she had failed it.

She thinks about that often—the exact moment things began to unravel. Was it when they fell in love? Or when she let herself fall too deep?

She doesn’t know.

She just knows she gave up her dreams, her ambition, her identity, for a love that couldn’t hold both of them. And now she’s deeply unhappy.

So when her consciousness begins to shift again, she doesn’t resist it this time.

She welcomes the pull back to her original life. A life where in her twenties she had no great love story, no dramatic heartbreak. She just studied, worked hard, lost herself in knowledge. And now she’s the surgeon she is because of that.

Maybe that version of herself had something right after all.

Maybe they were always supposed to meet later—when their careers were already established, when they knew who they were outside of each other. Maybe love wasn’t meant to be the thing that built them, but the thing that arrived once they’d already built themselves.

Amelia smiles, despite everything, as she recalls how deeply Monica had loved her in that universe. How easy it had been to fall asleep to her voice, to move through the world wrapped in that kind of certainty. It was the safest she’d ever felt with someone.

But that safety had come at a cost.

Even before things fell apart, before the failing grades and the codependency, before the final heartbreak—she’d already started to disappear. Monica didn’t ask her to shrink, but Amelia did it anyway, curling herself around that love like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Derek’s death had come earlier in that universe too, and she’d felt it—grieved it—but it was different. Muted. Like she didn’t have room to process it, because she was already grieving herself. The version of her who had dreams, direction, drive. The version of her who could stand alone.

That loss didn’t start with grief. It started with love. The kind that consumes before it can sustain.

So this time, she chooses differently.

She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. No more high school hallways or college dorms or chaotic med school hook ups. She wants a version of them where their foundations have already been laid. Where they’re whole on their own. Where loving Monica won’t mean losing herself. She wants to go to a time where they’ve both made it—successful, grounded and steady. 

Not too soon. Not too late.

Maybe the next universe is the one where they meet as the women they’re meant to be.

When Amelia opens her eyes, it’s raining.

Not a downpour—just a light drizzle, the kind that makes the air look misty. She blinks a few times, adjusting to her surroundings. A thick medical textbook is balanced on her lap. Her hands are ink-stained from taking notes, and a hot coffee—still warm—rests beside her on the bench.

This isn’t Seattle.

She turns her head, taking in the grey-brick buildings, the ivy creeping up the walls, the historic air of the campus. The realization hits slowly as she reads the banners. University of Pennsylvania. 

She’s in Philadelphia.

Her heart flutters, half with recognition, half with nerves. A different city. A different choice. A different life.

The memories of her original universe begin to blur at the edges again—lingering like dreams she’s just woken up from. Not fully gone, but distant enough to feel surreal. She still remembers her dad’s death when she was five, the sound of the gunshot, the chaos that followed. Evidently still a part of her in this universe. But here, something about her feels… looser. Less sharp around the edges. 

This version of Amelia must have made some different choices. She didn’t end up in Boston. Or Seattle. She landed here.

In this world, she’s a first-year med student at Penn. It’s nice to know that multiple versions of her ended up in the medical field—especially after seeing one who’d chosen theatre instead. Maybe this is confirmation she was always meant to be a doctor. The weight of it all registers slowly—she’s right at the beginning again. Early twenties. Another shot at Monica.

The thought alone makes her heart beat faster.

She doesn’t know what this version of Monica will be like—who she’ll be, how she’ll act, what her circumstances are—but the curiosity, the hope, is already flickering like a low-burning flame.

New beginning. New Monica. New universe.

And maybe, just maybe—finally—a chance to get it right.

She brushes herself down, grabs her coffee and books and heads towards the lecture hall, where all memories of the previous universe disappear.

The lecture hall is buzzing with quiet conversation, the kind of low hum that fills up a room before class begins. Amelia scans her environment, locating an open seat halfway up the middle tier and slides into it, grateful for a moment to collect her thoughts.

She pulls out her pen and notebook and starts reviewing her anatomy diagrams.

“Excuse me,” a voice says, cutting through her focus.

Amelia glances up, eyebrows lifting. A girl is standing in the aisle beside her, arms crossed, an arched brow raised with practiced precision.

She’s stunning.

Her dark hair is pulled into a perfect ponytail, her eyeliner winged so sharply it could cut glass. She’s wearing joggers and a fitted hoodie with a Penn crest, and somehow still manages to look like she’s stepped out of a catalog. Her expression, though, is anything but warm.

“That’s my seat.”

Amelia blinks. “What?”

The girl gestures, not unkindly, but not exactly politely either. “I sit there. Every class. Second row, third seat from the aisle.”

Amelia glances around. “Uh... there aren’t assigned seats.”

“Right. But that’s mine.” Her tone is cool, clipped. Confident.

Amelia opens her mouth, then closes it again. She's not sure what gets under her skin more—the entitlement or the way this girl smells like expensive shampoo and certainty.

“Well,” Amelia says, gesturing around, “there’s plenty of other seats.”

“Clearly,” the girl mutters, but doesn’t push further. She turns and heads toward the far side of the room, her shoulders stiff, her whole demeanor radiating annoyance.

Amelia watches her go, feeling oddly flustered. She doesn’t usually care what strangers think of her, but there’s something about that girl—something that puts her on edge.

The professor starts class, launching into a discussion about cranial nerve function, but Amelia can’t focus. She taps her pen against her notebook, distracted, stealing a glance across the room where the girl has seated herself. She’s leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the occasional irritated glance in Amelia’s direction.

Great. Day one, and she’s already made an enemy.

After class, a group of students gather near the door, chatting animatedly. Amelia hangs back near the edge, waiting for the cluster to clear before heading out. She catches part of the conversation—something about rotations, and someone mentions Boston.

“I was actually supposed to go to med school in Boston,” Amelia says without really thinking, finally inserting herself into the conversation. “But I made a last-minute change to Penn.”

From behind her, a scoff. “Just say Harvard.”

Amelia turns, and there she is again—the girl from earlier, arms folded, that same dry smirk on her lips.

“They always say ‘Boston’ like it sounds less pretentious,” she says to the group, who chuckle.

Amelia’s face heats. “I wasn’t trying to sound pretentious.”

“Sure,” the girl says easily. “But I’ve heard this speech before. ‘It’s just Boston,’ ‘it’s not a big deal,’ and then suddenly we’re all supposed to be impressed they got into Harvard.”

Amelia’s jaw tenses. She doesn’t reply. Instead, she steps back from the group, the familiar itch of frustration crawling down her spine. In her next class, she breaks several pencils during the lecture. She doesn’t hear a word the professor says.

*-*-*

Over the next few weeks, Monica Beltran becomes Amelia’s nemesis by unspoken agreement. Everything about her rubs Amelia the wrong way—her perfect hair that doesn’t move,, the sheen of her ChapStick, the way she always seems to have the right answer and say it just before Amelia can. Their friction isn’t explosive, just constant—a series of petty interactions and pointed comments that leave Amelia feeling constantly annoyed.

Every class feels like a silent battleground. Monica’s hand always shoots up half a second before hers, her notes are color-coded and aggressively neat, and she somehow always finds a way to sit just within Amelia’s eyeline. Once, during a histology review, Monica glanced at Amelia’s open binder and muttered under her breath, “No color-coding? Bold strategy,” with an amused scoff.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Some of us learn better the old-fashioned way.”

Monica smirked. “Whatever helps you keep up, Shepherd.”

Amelia’s pencil snapped in half right there on the desk.

It all comes to a head during a small group discussion. The topic is diagnostic reasoning, and Amelia is halfway through explaining her theory on a case study when Monica interjects.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Monica says, tilting her head slightly. “The patient’s symptoms point more toward Guillain-Barré than MS.”

“I was getting to that,” Amelia snaps, turning toward her. “You didn’t need to cut me off.”

“Well, sorry for trying to be efficient. We’re all here to learn, right?”

Amelia exhales sharply through her nose. “Maybe you should focus on learning to let other people finish a sentence.”

Their classmates glance between them like they’re watching a tennis match.

Monica offers a tight, clearly forced smile. “Noted.”

Later that morning, Amelia drags herself to the campus café, bleary-eyed and annoyed when she collides with another student, spilling coffee down her white sweatshirt.

“You look like someone who either just pulled an all-nighter or is about to,” he says, handing her a napkin.

“Both,” she mutters, blinking at him.

He laughs. “I’m Winston.”

“Amelia.”

They shake hands, and from that moment on, a quiet friendship starts to form. They start sitting next to each other in lectures, trading flashcards before class and commiserating over labs. Winston is kind, hilarious, and—best of all—completely uninterested in drama. He doesn’t pry when Amelia rolls her eyes every time Monica so much as opens her mouth. He just raises his eyebrows and says, “So what’s your deal with Beltran?.”

“She has it out for me.”

“Or,” Winston says thoughtfully, “she’s just a very competitive, intimidatingly brilliant person who happens to be incredibly attractive, and it’s making you twitchy.”

Amelia stares at him.

“Just a theory,” Winston shrugs.

Amelia denies it, of course. Loudly and with more protest than necessary.

But still, she finds herself noticing things—like the way Monica chews on the end of her pen when she’s deep in thought, or how her laughter is just a little too loud in study groups. She notices how she always smells like citrus and clean laundry, and how her eyes flick away whenever they make accidental eye contact.

It’s infuriating.

And a little intriguing.

And she hates that it’s intriguing.

Amelia reminds herself she’s here to become a doctor, not get sidetracked by competitive banter and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. She’s here to make something of herself. And Monica Beltran, with all her smirks and Harvard jabs and goddamn Greek goddess posture, is a distraction she doesn’t need.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

*-*-*

It happens late one evening after a long anatomy lab. Most students have already cleared out, desperate for sleep or sustenance or both. Amelia’s lingering to clean up her station, already halfway through stacking slides and wiping down her bench when she hears the sound—barely audible at first, just a quick sniff and a rustle of movement.

She turns and goes out back to find the source of the noise, and that’s where she finds Monica sitting in the storage closet, hunched over with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Amelia freezes. Every part of her instinct screams to leave—this isn’t her problem, and it’s definitely not her place. But something makes her stay rooted. Maybe it’s the way Monica’s shoulders are trembling, or the way she’s trying so hard to be silent.

She takes a cautious step forward. “Hey.”

Monica jumps slightly, hastily wiping her face. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on people.”

Amelia holds up her hands. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were still here.”

Monica sniffles again and keeps her gaze low. “Well, I am.”

The silence stretches, awkward and heavy, until Amelia can’t stand it. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Monica says quickly—too quickly. Her voice is taut, brittle.

“Right,” Amelia mutters. “Because crying alone in a closet is peak fine.”

That earns her a look. Not quite a glare though. Monica exhales, shaking her head. “I bombed my clinical skills assessment.”

Amelia blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”

Monica nods. “Yeah. Couldn’t even get the blood pressure cuff on right. Froze during the abdominal exam. I’ve never… I don’t usually freeze like that.”

“You’re always top of the class.”

“Exactly,” Monica snaps, more frustrated at herself than at Amelia. “Which is why it’s so embarrassing.”

There’s a pause.

“I used to be scared of loud noises,” Amelia says suddenly, leaning against the wall. She wants to sink down to Monica’s level but there’s no room to do so.

Monica frowns, caught off guard. “What?”

Amelia shrugs. “When I was five, I saw my dad get shot. Right in front of me.”

Monica’s expression softens immediately, her breath catching.

“After that, anything loud would send me into a panic. Balloons popping, car backfires, even the blender. I couldn’t sleep without earplugs for years.”

“What changed?”

Amelia offers a small smile. “One summer, my brother Derek bought a bunch of fireworks. Said we weren’t leaving the yard until I could watch them go off without flinching. We spent hours setting them off. I was crying, yelling at him… but eventually, the fear stopped feeling so big. It lost its grip on me.”

Monica is quiet for a moment, absorbing the story. Her voice is soft when she says, “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”

Amelia shrugs again, like it’s no big deal. “My point is that you’re allowed to freeze. You’re human. This is hard.”

Monica nods, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “Thanks, Shepherd.”

Amelia returns the smile. “Don’t mention it. Ever. Seriously. You make a deal out of this and I’ll steal your next chair on purpose.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of Monica, and something eases between them. They’re still not friends—at least not officially—but something unspoken shifts that night. A sliver of understanding, a layer of armor peeled back.

The next day, they’re back to their usual banter—Monica raising an eyebrow when Amelia stumbles over an answer in class, Amelia rolling her eyes when Monica breezes in late and still manages to impress the professor. But underneath the snark, there’s something else. Something warmer. Like maybe this rivalry isn’t entirely built on dislike after all.

Maybe it’s something else.

*-*-*

The year flies by faster than Amelia expected. Between dissecting cadavers, all-night study marathons, and pushing her brain to the edge of burnout, she hasn’t had much time for anything but survival. Finals week is behind her now, and for the first time in months, she feels like she can exhale.

There’s a party that night—end of first year, hosted by some second-years in a barely livable off-campus apartment. The place is packed, music humming low from a stereo in the corner, pizza boxes stacked high on every surface. The energy in the room is high, and the drinks are strong enough that Amelia’s second cup of punch is already hitting her harder than expected.

She finds Winston near the makeshift bar (a fold-out table with a cooler under it), and they spend the first part of the night people-watching and rating everyone’s stress-induced haircuts.

“I swear the guy in the corner shaved his own head with safety scissors,” Winston mutters.

“God bless him for trying,” Amelia says, sipping her drink. “Some of us just chose dramatic bangs instead.”

Winston snorts. “You’re so dark and mysterious.”

She’s mid-eye roll when she sees Monica across the room.

Tight black jeans that cling in all the right places. A cropped shirt  that shows just a sliver of skin. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, and her cheeks are flushed—either from alcohol or laughter, Amelia isn’t sure. She’s surrounded by a few classmates, casually owning the space like she always does.

Amelia tries to look away. She does. But it’s like her eyes won’t listen to her brain.

“Jesus,” Winston mutters. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The longing stare thing.”

“Shut up,” Amelia mutters. She gives him a playful nudge in the side before returning her focus to Monica. Or Beltran, as she likes to call her.

“Go talk to her.”

“I’d rather have brain surgery.”

But of course, fate—or maybe the alcohol—has other plans.

Later in the night, Amelia’s standing near the back door when she feels a presence beside her.

It’s her ..

“You survived first year,” Monica says, holding out a red cup in toast.

“Barely.”

They clink cups. Amelia’s heart stutters.

Monica leans in, a little too close. “Do you always break eye contact like it’s a full-time job, or is that just for me?”

Amelia smirks, emboldened by the liquor. “Only when you’re being annoying.”

“So, all the time?”

“Exactly.”

Monica laughs, soft and genuine. “You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure have a hard time not staring at me when you think I’m not looking.”

Amelia raises an eyebrow. “And you seem to have a hard time staying out of my personal space.”

“Maybe I like making you flustered.”

“You definitely like being annoying.”

“I’m very talented,” Monica says with a shrug, her eyes dancing. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept looking at me during cardio lab last week.”

Amelia scoffs. “I was trying to focus.”

“Oh, you were focusing alright.”

There’s a pause, the air thickening between them. The tension shifts from playful to charged in an instant. Their cups are still in hand, but neither is drinking now.

Amelia speaks, her voice softer. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

She swallows.

“Push. Tease…Flirt.”

Monica’s expression falters just enough to be real. “Because you let me.”

Amelia stares at her, the bravado draining from her as something more honest takes its place. “Maybe I don’t mind it.”

Monica looks at her then—really looks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there, barely a breath between them, the noise of the party muted behind the hum of electricity passing between them.

Monica glances to the side as if to check their surroundings. No one else is around.

She leans in.

And kisses her.

It’s quick at first—testing the waters, hesitant—but when Amelia doesn’t pull away, Monica deepens it. Their mouths move together like they’ve done this before in dreams, in arguments, in all the what-if moments they’ve tried to suppress. It’s clumsy and hungry and hot, and Amelia feels her back hit the wall with a soft thud. 

Monica’s hands settle on her waist. Amelia’s fingers tangle in Monica’s shirt, pulling her closer.. Everything is spinning but in the best way, and Amelia doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the months of tension finally snapping—but God, it feels incredible.

When they finally break apart, breathing heavily, Monica laughs softly. “That’s… not how I thought tonight would go.”

Amelia’s eyes are wide. “Did you—did you plan that?”

Monica shrugs, her voice low and playful. “I was hoping.”

Amelia blinks. “But you hate me.”

“I don’t,” Monica says softly. “You just make me crazy.”

“Good crazy or bad crazy?”

“Both!”

Amelia laughs, still breathless, and Monica steps back slowly. “You wanna get out of here?”

She hesitates for a split second—and then nods.

They leave without saying another word. Monica grabs her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they haven’t spent the last year snapping at each other across lab tables and exchanging thinly veiled insults. Her fingers are warm, steady, and the moment their palms connect, Amelia feels a rush of anticipation ripple down her spine.

They navigate the throng of people in the hallway, stepping over discarded cups and dodging partygoers making out against the walls. Monica pulls her up the stairs, turning down a narrow hallway until they reach a half-open bedroom door. She slips inside without hesitation, tugging Amelia in with her and closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the string lights hung crookedly above the bed. There’s a faint smell of stale beer and someone else’s cologne, but Amelia barely registers it. Her heart is pounding, ears buzzing with adrenaline and disbelief.

“This isn’t weird, right?” Monica asks, breathless.

“Only if we let it be,” Amelia replies, voice steadier than she feels.

There’s a long pause. Then Monica steps forward, slowly, giving Amelia time to back away.

She doesn’t.

Their mouths meet again, this time slower—less frantic than before, more exploratory. Monica kisses like she’s done this a hundred times, lips soft and confident. Amelia kisses back like she’s been waiting her whole life for it.

Hands roam—carefully at first, then more boldly. Monica slides her fingers beneath the hem of Amelia’s shirt, thumbs brushing over bare skin, and Amelia gasps softly, not from surprise, but from the way it feels to be touched with such want.

They move to the bed, shedding layers between kisses, the rest of the world disappearing behind the closed door. There’s nothing but heat and breath and skin, and the low creak of a too-old mattress under their weight.

Monica whispers her name like a secret she’s finally allowed to say. Amelia’s nerves fade under her touch, replaced with something warmer, deeper, hungrier. When Monica presses soft kisses along her collarbone, Amelia lets out a quiet sound she didn’t know she could make.

It isn’t rushed, despite the heat. Monica is gentle, intentional—checking in with her, reading every signal. She kisses Amelia slowly, reverently, like she’s trying to undo every cruel, competitive word they’ve ever exchanged. Her mouth works wonders over every inch of Amelia’s body.

Amelia, flushed and breathless, clings to her like she’s afraid the moment will vanish.

And when they fall asleep later, tangled together under someone else’s sheets, Amelia feels different.

She’s just not ready to think about why yet.

*-*-*

Summer break passes quickly and before Amelia knows it, she’s a second year. She steps into the lecture hall and immediately regrets it.

It’s not the coursework—she’s actually looking forward to that. Neuroanatomy, pathology, clinical rotations on the horizon. Her backpack is heavier than it needs to be, filled with freshly sharpened pencils and enough highlighters to stock a stationary aisle. No, the problem hits her the second she sees Monica across the room.

Monica is laughing at something one of their classmates said, her smile easy and effortless. She looks exactly how Amelia remembers her: glossy hair, confident demeanor, and that damn citrus-and-clean-laundry smell that Amelia swears haunts her dreams. It’s been months since that night in the upstairs bedroom. Months since they hooked up. Months since Monica ghosted her the morning after, barely making eye contact during the final week of school and vanishing over the summer like it never happened.

Amelia, on the other hand, has thought about it more times than she can count. Too many times. Inconvenient times. Like in the middle of family dinner or when she’s supposed to be studying prerequisites for second year. Beltran had actually been all she’d thought about all summer, and she hates herself a little for it.

Still, maybe now—with the space and the silence of summer behind them—things would be different. Maybe they could laugh about it, chalk it up to med school stress and one too many drinks. She could live with that, as long as Monica acknowledged her.

 Amelia steels herself, then walks over with what she hopes is a casual smile. As soon as she approaches, Monica looks down at her book and thumbs through it.

“Hey,” she says, voice light. “Long time no see.”

Monica barely glances at her. “Hey,” she says flatly, eyes not leaving the page in front of her.

Amelia swallows, her smile faltering. “How was your summer?”

“Fine.”

That’s it. No return question. No eye contact. No anything.

Amelia lingers for another second, waiting, hoping for something—anything—to crack through the wall. But it never comes.

“Okay then,” she mumbles, stepping back, her voice tight. “See you around.”

She walks away quickly, her face burning, heart twisting with disappointment. Whatever she thought might’ve changed—clearly hadn’t. Monica’s acting like nothing happened. Like they’re just classmates again.

Fine.

Amelia slides into a seat near Winston, trying not to look like she’s fuming. He side-eyes her immediately.

“Oh boy,” he mutters. “She’s got to you again hasn’t she?”

“Who?” she says too quickly.

Winston doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. “So we’re doing the avoidance thing again this semester?”

“She’s the one avoiding me,” Amelia hisses. “I’m just… responding.”

“Mhm.” He raises a brow. “Well, maybe one of you should try talking about it.”

Amelia ignores him and digs out her notes, flipping pages with more force than necessary. But the tightness in her chest lingers all the way through the lecture.

Later that week, it finally boils over.

She’s on her way to the library when she turns a corner too quickly and nearly collides with Monica. They both stop short, eyes wide. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Amelia can’t hold it in any longer.. “You’ve been avoiding me!”

Monica blinks, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Amelia crosses her arms. “You’ve spent the entire week pretending like we didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Monica cuts in sharply, but her eyes betray her panic.

Amelia steps closer. “Hook up. Kiss. Sleep together. Take your pick.”

A long silence stretches between them. Then Monica looks down and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” she says quietly. “I just… didn’t know what you wanted from me after that night.”

“I didn’t want anything,” Amelia lies. “Except maybe basic human decency. A hello? A nod of acknowledgement? Maybe don’t act like I’m invisible?”

Monica winces. “It was complicated.”

Amelia laughs bitterly. “It didn’t feel complicated when your mouth was on mine.”

That shuts Monica up.

Amelia brushes past her, pulse racing—but before she gets too far, Monica grabs her wrist.

“Wait,” she says, breathless. “I’m sorry.”

Amelia turns around slowly. “For what?”

Monica doesn’t answer with words. She kisses her.

It’s different this time—harsher, like they’ve both been holding something back for too long. It steals Amelia’s breath, makes her knees feel weak. Her bag thuds against the wall as Monica presses her backward, and Amelia lets her. She’s not thinking clearly. She doesn’t want to. Monica’s lips are on hers and everything else fades.

A door creaks nearby, and they break apart abruptly. Monica grabs her hand and pulls her toward a janitor’s closet—dark, cramped, and probably a health code violation.

The door clicks shut behind them, and then they’re on each other again, hands tangled in hair and clothes and anything they can grab hold of. It’s messy and hungry and there’s no pretending anymore. No more smirks or sarcasm or denying what this is.

When they finally part, breathless and flushed, Amelia leans her forehead against Monica’s.

“So… that’s what we’re doing now?” she whispers.

Monica just grins, fingers still tangled in the hem of Amelia’s shirt. “I guess so.”

Neither of them says what they’re really thinking: that they’ve already lost control.

*-*-*

From that day onward, Monica and Amelia become a very specific kind of problem.

To the outside world, they’re still arch enemies—snapping at each other in hallways and rolling eyes across lecture rooms. Monica still calls Amelia “Harvard” just to get under her skin, and Amelia interrupts Monica in class just to rile her up. Everybody thinks they can’t stand each other.

Which is funny, considering how often they’re sneaking off to make out in utility closets and underused seminar rooms.

It starts to feel like a routine.

Amelia will roll her eyes at something Monica says during class. Monica will lean in close enough to whisper, “You’re really cute when you’re pretending not to care.” Amelia will bristle, look away… and then twenty minutes later they’ll be pressed up against a supply cabinet.

And it’s always like that. Tension thick as fog. Jokes layered with innuendo. Long looks held a little too long. Monica brushing past Amelia in the hallway, hand skimming her waist just barely enough to make her shiver.

They meet in secret, in shadowed corners of campus and back staircases and empty rooms, acting like they’re doing something shameful when it’s the only thing that makes Amelia feel alive.

One afternoon, between anatomy lab and clinical skills, Amelia finds herself cornered in one of the basement seminar rooms, pressed against the cool wall by the very source of her irritation and obsession.

"You can't just disappear after every class and then show up looking like—" Amelia starts, breath caught as Monica leans in.

"Like what?" Monica’s voice is low, teasing. She’s close enough now that Amelia can feel the heat radiating off her, smell her perfume—something citrusy and impossible to forget.

"Like you didn’t just ruin my ability to focus for the next two hours," Amelia mutters.

Monica grins. "Is that my fault or your lack of self-control?"

Amelia narrows her eyes. "You're insufferable."

"Say it again," Monica murmurs, her lips ghosting the shell of Amelia’s ear. "Maybe this time I'll believe you."

"You're—"

But the rest of Amelia’s sentence is swallowed by Monica’s kiss—fierce, hungry, and unapologetically familiar. Amelia’s hands slide up Monica’s waist, gripping the edge of her shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

They stumble backwards until Monica’s back hits the long seminar table. Monica spins them around and Amelia lifts herself slightly to sit on the table. Monica steps between her legs, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

"You drive me insane," Amelia gasps between kisses.

"Right back at you, Harvard."

Clothes are tugged out of place with practiced ease, mouths desperate and hands even more so. 

Monica’s trembling fingers brush over skin, across nipples and down the soft curve of her stomach, pausing just above where Amelia is already aching for her.

She guides Monica’s hand down impatiently and kisses her like she’s starving, like this is the only place she ever wants to be.

And maybe it is.

Later, when they’re lying half-dressed on the floor with Amelia’s head resting on Monica’s stomach and their fingers lazily intertwined, it’s quiet. Peaceful. Dangerous.

Because if Amelia’s honest, she could stay in this silence forever.

Which is exactly the problem.

“I love doing that to you.” Monica sighs contentedly.

Amelia tilts her head up slightly, her voice soft, testing the waters. “And what exactly is this that we’re doing?”

Monica’s hand stills against her skin. She doesn’t answer right away, and Amelia watches the rise and fall of her chest as she thinks. Finally, Monica sighs.

“I thought we were just… having fun,” she says gently, her tone light, careful. “I mean, it’s not serious, right? Friends with benefits?”

Amelia forces a smile, even as something in her chest pulls tight. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

She almost instinctively presses a kiss to Monica’s stomach as she gets up but she stops herself. She moves to put some distance between them and lets go of Monica’s hand, ignoring the ache it leaves when she pulls away. .

Whatever fluttered up inside her just now—she buries it. Deep.

This is fine. This is what she signed up for.

She’ll push everything else out of her mind.

At least, she’ll try.

*-*-*

At first, Amelia tries to dial it back—to compartmentalize. After all, Monica had been clear: friends with benefits. So that’s exactly what she leans into. No lingering after. No tangled fingers or forehead kisses or brushing hair behind ears like she actually gives a damn.

She keeps it mechanical.

Efficient. Like an equation.

Touch + friction + orgasm = goodbye.

It gets harder when Monica starts inviting her over.

It’s one thing sneaking off between lectures, hooking up in janitor closets or empty classrooms where the air still smells faintly of whiteboard markers and floor polish. It’s another thing entirely when Monica texts her on a random Thursday night with: Wanna come over? My roommate’s gone. And suddenly Amelia’s standing outside Monica’s dorm, heart thudding against her ribs like she’s on a first date instead of a booty call.

It throws her off balance. Because Monica’s bed has freshly folded laundry on it. There are framed pictures on the desk, fairy lights strung along the window. It’s intimate in a way that closets never were. Amelia hates it.

She stands frozen in the doorway, taking it all in—the soft lighting, the homey scent of vanilla, the glimpse into Monica’s life that she hadn’t asked for. Something clenches in her chest. Too personal. Too close.

“Nope,” she mutters under her breath, backing out into the hallway.

Monica appears behind her, slightly confused. “You okay?”

Amelia spins, grabs her by the hand, and pulls her back into the tiny shared living room just outside the bedroom. “I’d rather fuck you in here, that’s all.”

Monica raises a brow. “Okay…?”

But Amelia doesn’t give her time to question it. She grabs Monica by the collar and kisses her with a bruising hunger, one that leaves no space for breath or words. Monica responds with startled enthusiasm, hands finding their usual place at Amelia’s waist, but this time Amelia doesn’t pause to savor it.

She guides them toward the couch with sharp precision, yanking Monica’s shirt over her head and pressing her down, following with her own in one fluid movement. Their mouths clash again, messy and rushed, and Amelia is already working on Monica’s jeans before she even bothers to kick her own shoes off.

“Eager much?” Monica breathes, half-laughing as she lies back, her body already arching toward Amelia’s touch.

“Just getting what I came for,” Amelia says flatly, her tone clipped, devoid of its usual warmth. She pushes Monica’s legs apart and dips down without ceremony, her hands firm on Monica’s hips, pinning her in place. There’s no buildup, no slow burn. Just heat. Just intention.

Monica gasps and moans, back arching, hands threading into Amelia’s hair. But Amelia stays quiet. Detached. Focused. Like this is a task to complete, a lab to pass. Her mind is a calculated blur of movements, each touch calibrated for efficiency, for release—hers and Monica’s.

She doesn’t kiss Monica again when she brings her over the edge. She doesn’t whisper anything sweet or trace slow lines across her skin. She just watches, counts the seconds, like this is some clinical reaction she’s eliciting, like this is all she’s good for now. It’s sex, not connection. Passion, not intimacy.

When Monica tries to pull her in for a kiss, Amelia dodges it, slipping off the couch to retrieve her clothes instead. She dresses quickly, not looking at Monica.

“That was… intense,” Monica says, propped on one elbow, breath still ragged.

“It was fine,” Amelia replies, tying her shoelace.

Monica raises a brow. “Fine?”

“What? You got off, didn’t you?” Amelia shrugs.

Monica blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Yeah. I just—you’re being weird.”

Amelia flashes a tight smile. “Friends with benefits, right? Just keeping it simple.”

And with that, she grabs her bag and leaves, not waiting for a reply. Her heart pounds all the way home, the echo of Monica’s body still on her hands, her lips. But she doesn’t let herself feel it. She doesn’t let herself feel anything at all.

Because feeling? Feeling is where it all goes to hell.

Her new tactic works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because no matter how fast Amelia tries to fuck her way out of her own feelings, something always gives.

Like the night Monica grazes her thumb over the edge of Amelia’s jaw after they’ve both come down from something intense. The gesture is so soft it makes Amelia’s heart stutter. Or the way Monica murmurs her name like it means something just before she falls asleep on Amelia’s chest. Amelia stops breathing when that happens. Not from panic—but because it feels like the world has narrowed down to this single heartbeat between them.

Eventually, the walls start to crack.

The hookups become slower, less frantic. Amelia starts bringing her notes over to Monica’s to study. Monica makes coffee. They argue over cases and laugh about professors. The sex starts happening in daylight. Sometimes they don't even have sex. They just lie in bed and talk. Monica’s bedroom which she once aggressively avoided is now her safe place, her second home.

By the end of spring semester, everyone knows Amelia and Monica are friends. Real friends. They eat lunch together, they sit next to each other in class, and they bicker over study flashcards in the library. Monica pretends to hate the way Amelia eats her sandwiches crust-first. Amelia pretends not to care when Monica chews her pen caps. They're seen as an unlikely duo—an uptight wannabe neuro specialist and the effortlessly cool future peds surgeon—but no one questions it.

No one suspects they’re hooking up.

No one knows Amelia's starting to fall in love with her.

She doesn’t even notice when she starts treating Monica differently. The way she lets herself trace lazy circles on her hip while they’re talking in bed. The way her eyes search Monica’s face for reactions when she tells a joke. She starts dreaming about doing normal things—dates, road trips, introducing Monica to her family. And she’s thinking—really thinking—about asking Monica out.

Until Winston ruins it.

It’s late on a Friday and they’re walking home from the library when Winston mentions it casually, mid-conversation about plans for the weekend.

“I think I’m gonna head over to Beltran’s later.”

Amelia looks over sharply. “Why?”

He shrugs. “She asked me if I wanted to hang out. Said she’s got tequila and leftover Chinese takeout.”

Amelia’s brows furrow. “Wait… why would you be going over there for that?”

Winston shoots her a confused look, then chuckles lightly, like she’s messing with him. “Uh… you know we’ve been hooking up, right?”

The words hit her like a sucker punch — unexpected and sharp. Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. The world doesn’t stop, but it sure as hell stutters.

“I figured you’d know. You guys are close, right?”

Amelia forces a tight smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

Winston keeps walking, unfazed. “It’s not serious. Never was. She made that pretty clear.”

Amelia nods stiffly, trying to swallow around the lump rising in her throat. She forces out a quiet, “Right. Of course.”

But it burns all the same.

She doesn’t wait. She finds herself heading to Monica’s dorm on autopilot. She bangs on the door and ignores the fact Monica looks surprised to see her. She also doesn’t even bother checking if Monica’s roommate is around because right now she couldn’t care less. 

“You’re sleeping with Winston?” she demands, voice sharp and cracking.

Monica looks caught off guard. “What? Why does that—why does it matter?”

“Because you told me this thing between us wasn’t serious,” Amelia hisses. “And I was stupid enough to believe that meant I wasn’t supposed to care. But I do. I care, okay!? And you could have at least told me.”

Monica’s expression hardens. “I never lied to you, Amelia. You knew the deal. You said you were fine with it.”

“Well, I’m not fine with it,” Amelia spits out. “I haven’t been for a while.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Monica exhales and looks away, her voice quieter now. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I told you that from the beginning.”

“Yeah, well,” Amelia says bitterly, “feelings don’t exactly ask for permission before showing up.”

Monica nods slowly, then meets her eyes. “Then maybe we should stop. Before it gets messier.”

Amelia swallows hard, her throat burning. “It’s already messy.”

Monica doesn’t deny it.

She just stands there, arms crossed, gaze flickering like she’s trying to keep hold of her carefully built indifference. Amelia’s chest is heaving, her heart pounding against the cage of her ribs.

“You could’ve just told me,” Amelia says, her voice low but shaking. 

Monica’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t think I had to. We said we weren’t doing feelings.”

“Yeah, well—” Amelia bites her lip to stop the tears falling, “Maybe I did something stupid like fall for you. Maybe I want to ask you out on a date, to actually be something with you.”

The air crackles between them, too loud, too heavy.

Monica’s voice is quiet. “Amelia…”

“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “Don’t. Don’t say anything.”

Her hands are trembling now, fury and heartbreak spilling over in equal measure. She heads for the door, but turns back at the last second, voice sharp and laced with venom.

“I’ll get out of your way then. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your night. Winston will be here soon to screw you, right?”

Monica flinches, eyes wide.

Amelia doesn’t wait for a response. The door slams behind her.

*-*-*

The absence of Monica Beltran is loud.

It’s not like she was ever quiet — not with her teasing comments in class or the way she always made herself known in a room — but now, her silence is even louder. Amelia feels it everywhere. In the empty corners of lecture halls, in the cafeteria line, in the absence of a look, a smirk, a brush of hands.

They don’t speak.

Not in study groups. Not passing in the hall. Not even when they’re paired together in clinical skills lab and have to take blood pressure readings from one another. Monica mutters a number under her breath, not meeting Amelia’s eyes, and Amelia records it on the sheet with fingers clenched so tightly her pen almost snaps. Unintentionally for once.

She pretends it doesn’t matter. That she’s fine. That the heat in her chest isn’t longing, or heartbreak, or humiliation, but something clinical and contained. She’s back to showing up early to class, throwing herself into study sessions with Winston (though not without some awkward readjusting there too), and burying herself in textbooks like she’s trying to excavate the version of herself who existed before Monica Beltran unraveled her.

The worst part? She misses her. Not just the sex — although yeah, she misses that too — but everything else. The banter. The quiet moments that stretched between them in Monica’s dorm, knees brushing beneath the blanket, fingers tangled like they couldn’t help it. She misses the way Monica used to touch her like she was something soft, like she mattered. And now? Now she’s just someone Monica used to hook up with. Another med school blip.

Amelia finds herself pausing outside the student union one afternoon after class, watching Monica from a distance. She’s laughing at something one of their classmates said, eyes crinkling, head tossed back. For a second, Amelia sees the version of her from those late-night study sessions, the one who whispered stupid jokes into her neck and stayed in bed longer than she said she would. It punches the breath out of her.

She turns away.

She tries sleeping with other people. Boys, girls — a couple classmates, a bartender from that dive bar near campus, even a TA from a different department she meets at a trivia night. It’s not like she’s looking for a relationship; she just wants to feel something that isn’t Monica . But none of them come close. None of them know her rhythms, the way Monica did. None of them know how to touch her with both confidence and care, like they’d memorized every inch of her. With everyone else, it feels like a performance — a well-rehearsed scene she’s tired of acting out. Every time, she’s left colder than when she started.

Tonight she’s sleeping with no one. She drinks two glasses of wine alone in her dorm and doesn’t cry. Not technically. But her pillow’s damp anyway.

*-*-*

The party is already loud when Amelia walks in, and she instantly regrets coming, but she figures she has to celebrate the end of second year in some way. It’s been a tough end to the year, and she’s hoping that some fun with her friends tonight will help her to finally stop thinking about Monica. But as the music pulses and laughter echoes around her, all she feels is restless.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed that it was this exact party last year—the end of first year—where everything with Monica had first begun. Where flirtation had turned to something heavier, where a glance had led to a kiss, and a kiss had led to everything else. And now, one year later, they stood at the end of second year, practically strangers again. The weight of what’s changed settles heavily on her chest. She’s here, going through the motions like she’s supposed to, but her eyes are already scanning the room, not for friends or drinks or laughter—but for her. Always for her.

And then she sees her..

Wearing that same black top Amelia always loved—the one that clung to her like a secret. Her hair’s pulled back in a casual ponytail, a cup in hand as she laughs at something someone says. She looks easy. Light. Unbothered.

Amelia hates how much it still affects her.

Later, after a few drinks and too many failed attempts at distraction, she finds herself outside, leaning against the porch railing, watching the night blur around her. She’s halfway through her drink when the door creaks behind her.

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Monica says softly.

Amelia doesn’t look at her. “Didn’t think you were looking.”

Monica sighs. “I was.”

A long silence stretches between them.

“I miss you,” Monica says eventually, voice quiet.

She looks beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

Amelia blinks. “Is this the part where you pretend the last six months didn’t happen?”

“No,” Monica says softly. “This is the part where I admit I was wrong.”

Amelia’s heart thuds against her ribcage.

Monica runs a hand through her hair, nervous for the first time. “Can we talk? Away from here?”

Amelia studies her for a long moment, then nods.

They slip out the door without another word, walking down the familiar ivy-lined path toward the quiet patch of grass behind the building.

Monica's eyes flicker over Amelia as she slowly sinks down onto the grass beside her, the night stretching quiet and wide above them. The stars are visible here—so much clearer than from their dorm windows—and the cool spring air is soft against their skin. The party’s noise still hums faintly from a distance, but here, tucked behind the ivy-covered wall that lines the back of the med campus, it feels like the rest of the world has melted away.

They sit in silence for a few moments, staring up at the sky, until Monica exhales softly.

“You ever wonder what’s out there?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“In the stars?” Amelia murmurs, glancing sideways at her.

Monica nods. “Yeah. Like… parallel universes. Alternate lives. Us, but different. I think about it a lot.”

Amelia swallows, her throat tight. “What would we be, in another universe?”

Monica looks over at her, eyes searching. “Maybe we’d get it right.”

The words hit Amelia square in the chest. She’s not sure what to say, not sure what this moment is, but she doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking too soon.

“I’ve been such a coward,” Monica says, her voice shaking slightly. “I told myself I didn’t want anything serious. That I needed to focus. That this—us—was just… temporary. But I lied.”

Amelia’s breath hitches. “Monica—”

“I’ve liked you since the beginning,” she says, finally turning to face her. “Even when we hated each other. Especially then. You got under my skin. You still do.”

“I’m not exactly easy,” Amelia says, trying to lighten the mood, her heart thundering in her chest.

“I don’t want easy,” Monica replies immediately. “I want you.”

They sit with that for a moment, letting it settle between them, heavier than anything they’ve said before.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” Amelia says quietly. “A lot. I didn’t know if it would ever happen.”

Monica nudges her knee gently. “So… ask me out.”

Amelia blinks. “What?”

“The date,” Monica says, her voice softer now, almost nervous. “You said you wanted to take me on one. So do it. Ask me out. We can go right now.”

Amelia laughs, startled but charmed. “Monica, it’s almost midnight.”

“All the best adventures start at midnight,” Monica grins, already standing and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself. “So, Dr. Shepherd, are you asking me out or not?”

Amelia blushes at the name. She stands too, heart hammering as she offers her hand. She clears her throat jokingly, “Monica Beltran… will you go on a date with me?”

They end up walking for nearly twenty minutes, away from the campus, toward the edge of the river. Monica finds a quiet spot where they can lie back on the grass and look up at the stars again. They talk about everything—their families, their favorite childhood memories, their dreams beyond med school. It’s stuff they mostly already know but something about tonight makes it all feel different. More intimate. Like seeing the same picture in a new light and noticing details you missed the first time. It feels like starting over and continuing all at once.

Amelia listens to Monica talk about her sister and two brothers, about Florida summers and the way she used to sneak into the neighbor’s pool as a kid. “You should come visit this summer,” she says. “Stay with me. We could lie on the beach all day, no textbooks, no early morning seminars. Just you and me.”

Amelia smiles, heart pounding in her chest. “Yeah? You really want me there?”

Monica turns her head, their eyes meeting in the dark. “Of course I do.”

“Then I’m in.” 

“Florida’s always felt like a bubble,” Monica says, “You know, sunshine, beaches, fake smiles. I’m excited for you to see the real parts this summer. The parts I never showed anyone.”

Amelia’s heart flutters. “You’re sure you want me to come?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Monica replies, reaching out to take her hand.

Their fingers link easily, like they’ve always belonged that way.

“You know this is going to change everything,” Amelia says, half in warning, half in wonder.

“I hope so,” Monica whispers. “God, I hope so.”

Under the stars, with the river reflecting the sky like a mirror, it feels like the beginning of something. Something that might just last.

They lie in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the air between them warm despite the cool night. Monica shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow, eyes tracing over Amelia’s face. There's a quiet nervousness in her expression, and for once, Monica Beltran—always confident, always composed—looks uncertain.

Amelia notices. Feels it mirrored in her own chest.

“What?” she whispers, barely audible.

Monica gives a half-smile, shy in a way Amelia's never seen before. “I kind of want to kiss you right now,” she admits, voice barely a breath.

Amelia has to bite back a laugh—not out of mockery, but because the moment is so absurdly tender. After everything they’ve done—after all the ways their mouths have met in far less innocent circumstances—Monica is nervous to kiss her. It’s sweet. Unexpectedly sweet. And it makes Amelia’s heart twist in the best possible way.

“Then kiss me,” she murmurs, voice steadier than she feels.

Their lips meet slowly—gently—as if they’re kissing for the first time all over again. And in a way, they are. This time, it’s not fueled by tension or secrecy or desperation. It’s soft and tentative, filled with nerves and hope, a kiss that says I want to try instead of I need you now . When they part, Amelia exhales shakily, her forehead resting against Monica’s.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “That was... something.”

Monica smiles, her voice light but sincere,“Yeah. It was.”

And they stay there, tangled under the stars, everything feeling brand new.

*-*-*

Amelia steps out of the tiny regional airport and is hit with a wall of heat that feels nothing like the breezy summer evenings in Philly. The air is thick, heavy with humidity, and the sun already threatens to melt her into the pavement. She's barely taken two steps when she hears it.

“Over here!”

Monica’s waving from across the parking lot, already dressed in shorts and a tank top, sunglasses perched in her hair. Amelia watches her jog toward her, all long legs and golden skin and barely concealed excitement, and something stirs in her chest that’s been simmering since they said goodbye three weeks ago.

“God, it’s hot,” Amelia says as Monica pulls her into a hug.

“You get used to it,” Monica grins, sliding her fingers around Amelia’s wrist and tugging her toward the car. “And besides, we’ve got AC, a pool, and a freezer full of popsicles. You’ll survive.”

The drive to Monica’s family home is filled with music from an old mixtape in the car stereo—scratched CDs and handwritten track lists, all sun-drenched nostalgia. They sing along with the windows down, hair blowing wildly, hands brushing on the center console every few minutes. Neither pulls away.

Monica’s house is a charming, beachy two-story with pale yellow siding and a porch that wraps around the front. Her parents are warm and welcoming—her dad jokes about Amelia's firm handshake, and her mom hugs her like they’ve known each other for years.

The days blur into a sun-soaked dream. Mornings are spent swimming or reading on the deck, afternoons filled with lazy drives along the coast or spontaneous ice cream trips. At night, they curl up on Monica’s bed with the windows open and the sound of cicadas humming through the trees.

They kiss endlessly, talk late into the night, and sleep tangled in each other’s arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not about sex—not like it used to be. They still want each other, of course, but everything has shifted. The urgency is gone. The need to prove something, to hold back emotion—it’s all fallen away.

One night, as they float in Monica’s backyard pool beneath a sky littered with stars, Amelia murmurs, “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Monica swims closer, fingertips trailing along Amelia’s arm. “Me too,” she whispers.

There’s a long silence between them, but it isn’t heavy. It’s filled with quiet awe, with the wonder of finally getting it right.

Amelia doesn’t say I love you . Not yet. But she thinks it. Every day. Every time Monica reaches for her hand or laughs mid-sentence or kisses the corner of her mouth before anyone else is awake.

And then one day at the beach, it happens.

They’ve been up since 4:30 a.m., bundled in sweatshirts and beach towels, driving with the windows cracked and hot gas station coffee between them. Monica had nudged Amelia awake with a whisper and a smile, saying, “I want to show you something. My favorite spot.”

Now they’re barefoot in the sand, walking toward the water’s edge while the first hints of dawn tint the sky in lavender and rose gold. Monica leads the way, her fingers curled tightly around Amelia’s, guiding her down a winding path until they reach a secluded patch of shoreline.

“This is it,” Monica says quietly, stopping just before the tide reaches their toes.

Amelia glances around. It’s peaceful here. Remote. The waves are gentle, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and nostalgia. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, and when she looks back at Monica, she finds her already watching her.

Monica’s eyes are soft, almost glassy. “I used to come here all the time when I was younger. Whenever I needed to think. Or run away from my brothers,” she adds with a small laugh.

Amelia smiles, squeezing her hand. “Well thank you for bringing me.”

Monica’s expression changes, like she’s holding something fragile in her chest. “You know,” she says, “I’ve said a lot of reckless things in my life. But this might be the scariest one.”

Amelia’s heart skips. “What is?”

“I think I love you,” Monica says, voice trembling slightly. “Actually… I know I do. I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I love the way you hum when you’re reading,” Monica says quietly, her voice almost swept away by the breeze. “And how you get this little crease between your brows when you’re studying. I love that you steal my fries but always offer me the last bite of your sandwich like it’s some noble sacrifice.”

Amelia’s lips twitch into a smile, but Monica keeps going, her voice a little steadier now.

“I love how you argue with TV characters out loud. And how you never take your shoes off properly—you just sort of kick them off and leave them like tiny crime scenes around your room. I love that you always remember my coffee order, but forget where you parked.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “I love all the small things. The ones no one else would even notice. But I do. I notice everything about you.”

Amelia is stunned. She feels like she’s been cracked open in the best possible way, like Monica has found every dark, uncertain place in her and gently kissed it warm.

She reaches for Monica’s hand, threading their fingers together. “You picked a hell of a place to say it,” she whispers. “But you’re not alone in it.”

Monica blinks. “Yeah?”

“I love you too,” Amelia says, her voice steady and full of something she’s never given anyone before. “So much I don’t even know what to do with it most days.”

Monica exhales a breathless laugh and wraps her arms around Amelia’s waist, pulling her close as the sun spills gold across the horizon. They kiss, slow and full of feeling, their silhouettes framed by light, and for once, the future doesn’t feel like a question mark.

It just feels like this .

*-*-*

Monica and Amelia return to Philadelphia at the end of August, sun-kissed and madly in love. They move into a tiny off-campus apartment just a few blocks from Penn’s medical campus. It’s nothing fancy—two rooms and a creaky radiator—but it’s theirs. Monica immediately strings up fairy lights and unpacks her stack of philosophy books. Amelia claims the right side of the closet and hangs a picture of her and Derek on the wall above their desk.

They fall into domesticity so quickly it startles them both. Mornings are filled with coffee made too strong and rushed kisses before class. Evenings are spent cooking pasta together in their comically small kitchen, their elbows constantly bumping, Monica stealing bites off Amelia’s plate and Amelia pretending to be annoyed. They argue about what movie to rent on DVD—Monica always wants a romcom nowadays; Amelia always ends up giving in.

They’re happy. Really, truly happy.

Third year is intense—longer hospital shifts, clinical rotations, and the mounting pressure of choosing where to apply for residency—but they handle it side by side. When Amelia comes home late, Monica has leftovers waiting and the electric blanket turned on. When Monica has a tough day, Amelia lets her vent until she falls asleep mid-sentence on the couch.

They don’t keep their relationship a secret anymore. It’s not like they’re announcing it with balloons, but it’s clear enough to anyone paying attention. 

On Amelia’s birthday in November, Monica makes her pancakes in the shape of hearts and hangs a hand-drawn banner across the living room. She gives her a tiny silver bracelet with a charm shaped like a star. “To remember our first date,” she says, and Amelia tears up before tackling her with a hug.

They go out to dinner that night—cheap wine, greasy fries, and fancy dessert—and walk home with their fingers intertwined, the cold air biting at their cheeks. Amelia can’t stop smiling. It’s the best birthday she’s ever had.

She thinks maybe this is what the right time looks like. Like a quiet, steady sort of love built in the spaces between lectures and long exhausting shifts and 12 hour study sessions. A love that grows not despite their ambitions, but alongside them.

And Amelia figures that if there really are parallel universes out there, she’s definitely in the right one. 

*-*-*

The call comes in the middle of the night in March of 2005.

Amelia doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes to Monica shaking her gently, voice low and trembling. There’s something in her eyes that makes Amelia bolt upright before a single word is said.

“Amelia,” Monica whispers, holding out the phone. “It’s your mom.”

Something drops in Amelia’s stomach—cold and final. Why would her mom be calling this late? She takes the receiver with a hand that barely feels like hers, pressing it to her ear.

She hears the words—Derek’s gone, he’s gone, I’m so sorry—and her body goes still.

Her mother’s voice is shaking on the other end as she explains, haltingly, that Derek had been unraveling ever since the end of his marriage. That finding out Addison had slept with his best friend, Mark, had destroyed him. That even though he tried to forgive, tried to move on, it was like something inside him had cracked and never quite healed.

Amelia listens numbly as her mother sobs. And then, without warning, she sets the phone down carefully, like breaking it would make it more real, and stares at the wall.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She just sets the phone down carefully, like breaking it would make it more real, and stares at the wall.

Monica kneels beside her, reaching out slowly. “Amelia…”

Amelia blinks once, then collapses into her arms in a heap.

The days blur after that. Monica makes the flight arrangements, calls in Amelia’s professors, handles all the logistics with a steadiness Amelia cannot muster. Amelia just…floats. It’s like she’s underwater, and Monica is the only one holding the lifeline.

The funeral is like an out of body experience that she’s observing.

Black dress, stiff hugs, murmured condolences from people she barely knows. She watches as they lower Derek into the ground, but it doesn’t feel real. None of it does.

Monica is with her the entire time—her anchor in the storm. She’s there holding her hand during the service, rubbing soothing circles into her back each time Amelia breaks down. She shields her from conversation she wants to avoid from overbearing family members. She holds her steady.

But it isn’t until they’re back at Amelia’s family home—quiet, too quiet—that it all hits her.

She sits on the edge of her childhood bed, still in her funeral clothes, the weight of the day pressing down on her chest like cement. Monica crouches in front of her, gently slipping off her shoes, then standing to unzip her dress without saying a word. She replaces it with one of Amelia’s old sweatshirts, and helps her climb under the covers.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and Amelia stares at the ceiling for a long time before finally whispering, “I don’t understand.”

Monica looks up from where she’s curled beside her on the bed. “What don’t you understand?”

Amelia swallows. “How he could be gone. Just like that. He was Derek. He was brilliant. He was the one who always told me to keep going. The one who always had answers.”

Monica shifts closer, her hand wrapping gently around Amelia’s. “Even people who have all the answers can be in pain. Especially those people.”

Amelia’s voice cracks. “I keep thinking… maybe if I’d called more. If I’d gone home more. Maybe I could’ve done something.”

“You don’t have to carry that,” Monica says softly. “You loved him. He knew that. None of this is on you.”

“I can’t stop replaying it,” Amelia whispers. “The way Mom’s voice sounded on the phone. The way she said it. And then seeing him there in the casket. He looked like he was sleeping.”

Monica squeezes her hand. “I know. I know it’s all you see right now. But you’re going to come back from this. You will.”

Amelia closes her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks silently. “He was supposed to be okay. I thought he’d be okay after the divorce. I thought time would fix it. “Addison sleeping with Mark… it shattered him. And I’ve just…I’ve been so angry with him,” Amelia admits. “For leaving us. For giving up. For not fighting harder. How selfish is that?”

Monica moves closer, wrapping her arms tightly around Amelia, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You’re not selfish, baby. You’re allowed to be angry. And heartbroken. And confused. You’re allowed to feel all of it.”

Amelia presses her forehead into Monica’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to breathe without him.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Monica whispers. “Just one breath at a time. You’re not alone, okay? I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

They sit like that for what feels like hours—Amelia wrapped in Monica’s arms, held together only by the steady, quiet strength of the girl who’s never once let go.

Later that night, as the sky turns dark and the weight of the day settles over them, Monica gently brushes a tear from Amelia’s cheek and says, “I was thinking… maybe we could get some fireworks.” Amelia looks up at her, confused, and Monica adds softly, “You told me Derek used to set them off with you. To help you not be afraid. I thought maybe we could light a few for him. Let him know you’re thinking about him.” The idea knocks the breath out of Amelia—so simple, but so thoughtful. She nods, throat too tight to speak, eyes stinging with fresh tears. It’s the kind of gesture she’ll never forget.

Afterward, Monica brings her home to Philadelphia. Amelia barely speaks. She barely eats. She cries at odd hours, wakes screaming from nightmares. Monica never leaves. She stays beside her through every breakdown, every silence, every impulsive decision to drink when it all becomes too much.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Monica pleads one night, her voice hoarse as she pries a half-empty bottle of vodka from Amelia’s hands. “This isn’t you.”

Amelia laughs, a hollow, broken sound. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” Monica insists. “I know you’re in pain. I know you’re hurting. But this isn’t going to fix it.”

Amelia glares. “Don’t talk to me like I’m your patient.”

“You’re not. You’re the person I love,” Monica snaps back, and then instantly softens. “Which is why I’m not letting you destroy yourself.”

Monica sleeps beside her every night, keeps track of her assignments, drags her to classes when she doesn’t want to go. She becomes Amelia’s nurse, therapist, tutor, girlfriend—everything.

And Amelia lets her.

She lets Monica cook for her, bathe her when she’s too exhausted to stand, whisper reassuring things when Amelia breaks down over nothing. Amelia clings to her like a lifeline, like she might dissolve without her. She needs her in a way that’s no longer healthy, and somewhere deep down, she knows it.

But she can’t stop.

Because Monica’s the only thing that makes the grief bearable.

And Monica? Monica stays. Even when it gets too heavy. Even when Amelia lashes out. Even when it starts to wear her down.

They don’t talk about that part. They just exist together in the silence between tragedy and survival.

And for now, that’s enough.

*-*-*

At first, Amelia thought quitting drinking would be the hardest part. But with Monica’s help, she manages it. The wine bottles disappear from their apartment. Monica stocks the fridge with diet coke and flavored water, learns Amelia’s favorite teas, and makes a habit of sitting with her in silence when the cravings hit hardest. It’s not easy, but it feels possible—because Monica makes it possible.

Only, sobriety doesn’t fix everything. If anything, it just peels back the curtain on how badly she had come to need Monica. Not want. Need . Monica had become the air she breathed, the ground beneath her feet, the only thing that made her feel tethered to the world after Derek’s death. 

Monica doesn’t just make her feel safe. Monica is safety.

Amelia stops studying as much. She isn’t going to lectures consistently. She’s skipping study groups. Not because she was lazy or disinterested—but because every free moment is spent wrapped around Monica, and it feels more fulfilling than anything else could.

And, truthfully, even before Derek’s death, Amelia had been distracted. She hadn’t been performing her best academically since the start of their relationship. Monica had consumed her even then—her attention, her ambition, her time. She wanted to be excellent, but her priorities had shifted.

Their love was a roaring fire and Amelia couldn’t help but throw herself into it, even if it meant getting burned.

One Saturday evening, they were supposed to go out with friends—Monica with a group from her anatomy class, Amelia with a few people from her clinical prep group. They were both halfway dressed when Amelia, curled up on the couch in Monica’s oversized hoodie, looks up with tired eyes.

"Can we not go?" she murmurs, her voice quiet, childlike.

Monica turns from where she was applying mascara in the mirror. "You don’t want to see your friends?"

Amelia shakes her head. "I just... don’t feel like it. Can’t we just stay in? Watch a movie or something? Just us?"

Monica hesitated. "Babe, we’ve bailed the last three times. I haven’t seen anyone outside of class in weeks."

Amelia’s eyes drop to the blanket clutched in her hands. Her voice barely a whisper. "I don’t want you to leave me."

That stops Monica in her tracks.

Amelia looks up, eyes glassy. "I just want to be with you. I feel better when you’re here. Everything feels easier. Safer. You make everything make sense."

Monica walks over, kneeling beside the couch and tucking a strand of hair behind Amelia’s ear.

"Okay," she whispers. "I’ll stay."

The relief is immediate. She leans into Monica’s touch, eyes closing with a contented sigh.

It was the fourth social plan they’d canceled.

And Amelia hadn’t gone to her last three study sessions. Monica had brushed it off at first—grief, recovery, healing. But now, she was starting to realize.

Amelia needs her too much.

And Monica doesn’t know how to give her space without breaking her heart.

*-*-*

It’s Winston who finally says it out loud.

They’re sitting on a campus bench one afternoon. Monica had expected small talk. She didn’t expect an intervention.

“She’s not okay, Monica,” Winston says, his voice calm but unmistakably serious. “And I don’t think you are either.”

Monica stiffens. “We’re managing.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re enabling her. You think you're helping, but you’re part of the problem.”

 “That’s not fair—”

“She’s failing, Monica. She skipped three classes last week. She bombed the neuro exam, and you know that’s her thing. That’s where she shines.”

Monica crosses her arms, folding into herself. “She’s grieving. She just lost her brother.”

Winston leans in slightly, eyes sharp. “She was slipping before Derek died. You know it. She hasn’t been herself in months. Everything’s about you. If you’re not in the room, she’s lost. And you—you stopped caring about your own goals to manage hers.”

“I didn’t—” she weakly protests.

“Monica,” Winston says gently, but firmly. “You dropped out of the student research program. You turned down that summer internship. You haven’t talked about your residency plans in weeks.”

Monica swallows hard. “Amelia will bounce back. She just needs more time. And once she’s better I can focus on myself again.”

“She won’t,” Winston cuts in. “Because she already stopped caring long before her brother died. You remember what she was like in first year—ruthless. Brilliant. The top of every damn class.”

“I do,” Monica whispers.

“Then tell me honestly—when was the last time you saw that version of her?” He waits, and when Monica doesn’t answer, he continues. “She loves you, I get it. And you obviously love her.. But this thing between you two—it’s not healthy anymore. You’ve become her world. And that’s not romantic, Monica. That’s dangerous.”

Monica looks away, blinking fast. “So what? You think I should just leave her? Abandon her?”

“I think if you really love her, you’ll help her find herself again—even if that means letting her go.”

Monica’s silence is answer enough.. She stands abruptly, murmuring something about needing to get to the library, even though they both know she won’t.

That evening, Monica finds Amelia curled up on the couch, surrounded by textbooks she hasn’t opened. The television plays some old rerun in the background. Monica sits beside her, silent for a long time.

“How was your day?” Amelia asks, leaning into her instinctively, head against Monica’s shoulder.

Monica doesn’t answer right away. She wraps an arm around her instead, kissing the top of Amelia’s head.

“Mon?”

“You missed your study group again today.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t go to class.”

Amelia sighs, burying her face into Monica’s neck. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not as long as I have you.” Amelia’s voice is soft, childlike. “As long as I have you, I’m okay.”

If only she knew that words that she intended to make Monica feel loved were instead crushing her. 

“Amelia… what’s going on with your grades?”

Amelia pulls back slightly, frowning. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re going to fail out. You’ve missed too many assignments. You’re falling behind in everything.”

Amelia looks at her like she doesn’t understand the concern. “So what? I don’t care.”

Monica’s breath catches.

“You don’t need to be a doctor to be happy, Monica,” Amelia says quietly. “I don’t need all that if I have you.”

“That’s not healthy babe, and you know it,” Monica whispers.

Amelia leans in. “It’s the truth.”

“No, it’s not.” Monica pulls away completely now, standing up. “You’re not okay, Amelia. You’re not yourself anymore. And I’m scared I’m part of the reason.”

Amelia's chest tightens. Panic flashes across her face—raw and immediate—like she knows exactly where this conversation is headed and wants to slam the brakes before it gets there. She stands quickly, reaching out for Monica’s hand, desperate to pull her back not just physically, but emotionally.

Her voice is soft, almost pleading. “I love you, you know,” Amelia whispers, like if she says it gently enough, it’ll anchor them back to the version of themselves that didn’t have to navigate this pain.

To her relief, Monica relents, She pulls Amelia in and kisses the top of her head and Amelia can breathe again.

“I love you too.” 

She falls asleep with her hand laced in Monica’s like she’s afraid she’ll vanish if she lets go.

Amelia doesn’t go to class the next day, but she does do something productive. Something that Monica can be proud of. 

“Hey,” Amelia says, brightening when she sees Monica walking through the door. “I made dinner.See, I don’t just sit around doing nothing. I made you dinner. It’s cold now, but I can reheat—”

“Amelia.”

The way Monica says her name makes Amelia’s smile falter.

Monica sits down across from her, not beside her. That alone is enough to make Amelia’s stomach drop.

“We need to talk,” Monica says gently.

A beat. Two.

“No,” Amelia says, already shaking her head. “Whatever it is, don’t.”

“I’m transferring to Columbia for final year.”

The words land like a slap. Amelia stares at her, stunned.

“No, you’re not,” she whispers. “You can’t.”

“I have to.” Monica’s voice cracks. “This isn’t working.”

“It is,” Amelia insists, tears already filling her eyes. “We’re working. We’re in love, Monica.”

“I know,” Monica says. “And that’s the problem here. But it’s not love if it’s drowning you. You’re losing yourself. You don’t care about anything but me.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is. You bombed your exam last week. You told me you didn’t need to be a doctor anymore because you had me. Amelia…” Monica leans forward, her voice breaking. “That’s not healthy.”

“You promised me forever,” Amelia chokes out. “You said we’d always have each other.”

“And we will. Just not right now. Not like this.”

Silence stretches between them like an open wound. Amelia tries again, her voice shaking.

Amelia shakes her head. “Don’t do this. Please don’t.”

“I have to,” Monica says, tears rising in her throat. “Because if I don’t, you’re going to lose everything. And I can’t be the reason you give up on your future.”

Amelia stands too now, eyes wide with panic. “No. No, you’re not doing this. We’re in this together, remember? You said you loved me.”

“I do,” Monica says brokenly. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Tears spill down Amelia’s cheeks as she steps forward. “Don’t go. Please. I’ll get it together. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t go.”

But Monica is crying too now. “I wish I could stay. But if I do… I’m scared you’ll lose everything. And I’ll lose you anyway.”

There’s nothing left to say. Amelia collapses into Monica’s arms, sobbing. They cling to each other so tight, like they can somehow undo everything with the strength of this one final embrace.

But they both know the truth.

Some love stories aren’t meant to survive when one person forgets how to stand on their own.

And for Monica, loving Amelia means letting her go.

*-*-*

A Monica-less Amelia is an Amelia she never wants to meet again. The silence in their once happy home is deafening—no Monica humming from the kitchen, no teasing voice calling her name from the bedroom, no soft laughter echoing in her ears. Just the dull throb of heartbreak.

She skips classes for the rest of the week. Can’t bring herself to enter the library where they used to study. Can’t face the cafeteria where Monica used to steal fries off her plate like they were hers by right.

Winston finds her one afternoon, curled up in their apartment wearing the same hoodie for the third day in a row, staring blankly at the TV without even registering what’s on.

He sits beside her, wordless at first. Just offers a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“She’s gone,” Amelia whispers. Her voice is hoarse from crying.

“I know.”

“I begged her.”

“I know that too.”

Amelia finally looks at him, eyes red and raw. “Was she right?”

Winston hesitates, but only for a moment. “Yeah. She was.”

And for the first time, Amelia doesn’t fight him on it. She just closes her eyes and lets the truth settle over her like a heavy blanket.

“She was my whole world,” she says, voice cracking. “And I let her be.”

Winston doesn’t try to offer false comfort. He just puts an arm around her shoulders and holds her while she cries again, the sound hollow and exhausted.

“She loved you,” he says after a while. “But you forgot to love yourself too.”

Amelia nods slowly. Because deep down, she knows it’s true.

She’d put Monica on a pedestal, built her life around her like scaffolding on a crumbling building. And now that Monica had walked away, the structure was collapsing.

Monica had left so Amelia would do better—but the irony was, she only did worse. Monica had believed that breaking things off would help Amelia find herself, regain her focus, get back on track. But without her, Amelia was even more lost. The heartbreak hollowed her out. Third year slips away in a haze of numb days and sleepless nights. When fourth year begins, she tries—she really does—but she’s barely holding it together. She scrapes by, just enough to stay enrolled. But it’s not enough. When the match list is posted, her name isn’t on it. She doesn’t graduate. Doesn’t become a doctor.

Monica does.

She sees it in a letter sent to the old address they once shared—Monica’s acceptance into residency, a prestigious program in Miami. A congratulatory note from the school accidentally forwarded to Amelia. There’s a photo of her attached to the bulletin board in the student lounge, smiling with her new badge.

She looks happy.

Amelia doesn’t stay long enough to look twice.

She moves out a week later, not even bothering to pack properly. She leaves behind textbooks, posters, an old hoodie Monica once claimed for herself and never gave back until she left forever. She doesn’t want reminders. 

She throws the bracelet Monica bought her in the trash. She doesn’t want to remember their first date, how they talked under the stars and considered the multiverse theory. She had been so sure she was in the right place at the right time, but it turns out this universe had failed her.

Or maybe she had failed it.

She thinks about that often—the exact moment things began to unravel. Was it when they fell in love? Or when she let herself fall too deep?

She doesn’t know.

She just knows she gave up her dreams, her ambition, her identity, for a love that couldn’t hold both of them. And now she’s deeply unhappy.

So when her consciousness begins to shift again, she doesn’t resist it this time.

She welcomes the pull back to her original life. A life where in her twenties she had no great love story, no dramatic heartbreak. She just studied, worked hard, lost herself in knowledge. And now she’s the surgeon she is because of that.

Maybe that version of herself had something right after all.

Maybe they were always supposed to meet later—when their careers were already established, when they knew who they were outside of each other. Maybe love wasn’t meant to be the thing that built them, but the thing that arrived once they’d already built themselves.

Amelia smiles, despite everything, as she recalls how deeply Monica had loved her in that universe. How easy it had been to fall asleep to her voice, to move through the world wrapped in that kind of certainty. It was the safest she’d ever felt with someone.

But that safety had come at a cost.

Even before things fell apart, before the failing grades and the codependency, before the final heartbreak—she’d already started to disappear. Monica didn’t ask her to shrink, but Amelia did it anyway, curling herself around that love like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Derek’s death had come earlier in that universe too, and she’d felt it—grieved it—but it was different. Muted. Like she didn’t have room to process it, because she was already grieving herself. The version of her who had dreams, direction, drive. The version of her who could stand alone.

That loss didn’t start with grief. It started with love. The kind that consumes before it can sustain.

So this time, she chooses differently.

She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. No more high school hallways or college dorms or chaotic med school hook ups. She wants a version of them where their foundations have already been laid. Where they’re whole on their own. Where loving Monica won’t mean losing herself. She wants to go to a time where they’ve both made it—successful, grounded and steady. 

Not too soon. Not too late.

Maybe the next universe is the one where they meet as the women they’re meant to be.