Teylan had always known that working in medicine in Nolish Hospital would be hard, but she never expected it to break her.
She had grown up believing in the nobility of the profession, idolizing the doctors and healers who walked the halls of hospitals with quiet confidence. When she was accepted into the medical academy, she felt she had finally stepped into the life she had dreamed of. But as the years went by, her illusions began to crack.
Her days blurred into one another—long hours on the hospital floor, the relentless beeping of monitors, the demands of patients, their families, and the ever-watchful superiors who expected perfection. Mistakes were not tolerated, and asking for help was a sign of weakness.
By the time she completed her first year as a resident at Lendor Medical Centre, exhaustion was no longer something she fought off—it had become a part of her. She had learned to function on three hours of sleep, to push through her shifts with an empty stomach, and to suppress the weight pressing on her chest.
Then, there were the words. Patients who called her incapable. Senior doctors who dismissed her concerns. Male colleagues who talked over her in meetings. When she expressed her frustration, she was told it was just how things were. “Don’t take it personally,” they said.
One evening, after a particularly brutal shift, she found herself sitting on the cold tiled floor of the hospital’s supply closet, unable to move. She had just lost a patient—an elderly woman who had come in with what seemed like a minor infection. The antibiotics had been delayed. A small oversight. But small oversights in medicine had consequences.
Teylan stared at the shelves stacked with gauze and syringes, her breathing shallow. She had seen the numbers. Nearly seventy percent of her colleagues reported feeling mentally unwell. Most of them kept quiet about it. They had to. Asking for help meant being seen as unfit for the job. It meant risking everything.
When she finally forced herself to stand, she felt hollow. The next day, she went to work as if nothing had happened. That was how it had to be.
It was only weeks later, when she overheard two nurses whispering about another resident who had left in the middle of a shift and never returned, that she realized how dangerous silence could be.
That night, Teylan did something she never thought she would. She walked into her supervisor’s office and closed the door behind her. She didn’t know if they would listen. She didn’t know if speaking up would cost her everything. But she was too tired to keep pretending she was fine.
And maybe—just maybe—if someone else was listening, they wouldn’t have to pretend either.