Chapter One — Pretend Like You Belong
…Leila
There’s a rhythm to faking it.
Wake up before your roommate. Tidy your desk like it wasn’t chaos at 2 a.m. Put on the white coat like it means something—like it was passed down through bloodlines and not stitched together with scholarships and a shaky GPA from first year.
Smile in the mirror. Not too much. Just enough.
Pretend like you belong here.
That’s what I do every morning at Velmont University. It’s a game, and I’ve gotten good at it. Not perfect—but passable.
I tucked my phone into my coat pocket, glancing at Amani still asleep on her side of the room. Her breathing was soft and steady, her bed always perfectly made. I didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t answer them. That was our friendship—comfortable silence and shared ambition. We worked because we didn’t dig.
My stethoscope was tangled with a charging cable. I yanked it loose, shoved a protein bar into my bag, and walked out the door before I could second-guess my own face.
Keller Hall smelled like instant noodles and stress. Posters lined the hallway: STUDENT BODY ELECTIONS, SURGICAL SOCIETY TRYOUTS, and of course, the printed flyer that taunted half the med students every semester: Top 10 Academic Ranks – Updated Monthly.
I didn’t need to look. I already knew I was number three.
Number two was Zara—flawless, outspoken, and currently dating a third-year resident no one was supposed to know about. Number one was the golden boy, Miles Han, who probably coded in his sleep and ran simulations for fun.
I wasn’t jealous. Just… determined.
The walk to the anatomy wing took ten minutes. I spent seven of them practicing what I’d say if I was called on during rounds. I recited drug interactions under my breath like prayers.
When I walked into the clinical skills lab, the chaos was already blooming—lab coats moving like ghosts, someone’s coffee spilled on a clipboard, and Dr. Mehta reading over the case notes with the enthusiasm of a man who hated all of us equally.
“Patient presents with shortness of breath,” he snapped. “Vitals on the screen. Ameen, differential?”
Of course. First bullet to the chest.
“Could be pulmonary embolism,” I replied, steady.
He raised an eyebrow. “Could be. What else?”
I hesitated.
Mistake.
“Maybe a cardiac tamponade if—”
“Maybe,” he cut in. “You’re not here to maybe. You’re here to think. Out.”
I stepped back. A few students smirked. I kept my face blank.
Rhythm. Reset. Keep moving.
Later, in the study lounge, we spread out across a round table, pages open, laptops humming.
“Okay, tell me Zara isn’t definitely banging Dr. Cortez,” Nina said, flipping through her notes like she hadn’t just launched verbal grenades into the room.
“She says they’re just ‘close,’” Rina added, air-quoting so hard her fingers cracked.
I didn’t comment. I just highlighted a sentence I wasn’t reading.
Someone else chimed in, “You think if I date a resident I’ll finally pass cardiology?”
Laughter.
Amani smiled but didn’t speak. I caught her glancing at her phone again, like she was waiting for news. Bad or good, I wasn’t sure.
Then someone said, casually, “Hey Leila, is your dad really Dr. Ameen from Columbia Med?”
There it was.
I smiled like I’d been asked what my favorite color was.
“Yeah,” I lied. “He used to work there.”
More smiles. Nods. Approval tucked into the curve of their mouths.
And just like that, I was safe again.
Back in my room that night, I kicked off my shoes and checked the Velmont gossip thread for no reason at all.
@velmonttruths: Heard Keller Hall’s number 3 student choked on rounds today. Guess your daddy can’t save you in person.
There were no names, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew.
I closed the app. Opened my med notes. Typed the same sentence three times.
There’s a rhythm to faking it. But some days, I swear it’s offbeat.
To be continued…
