thank you all very much for the love. i swear every time i get a comment or a message from any of you i get stupidly happy. if there are any sort of errors i apologize in advance—i edited this with a scattered mind. btw there's a bit of an important A/N at the end so, yeah...
oh and a bit of an fyi: USMLE (United States Medical Licensing Examination) Step 2 CK is an exam usually taken on the fourth year of med school to assess medical knowledge, skills, etc.
The clouds are beginning to gather this evening like creeping smoke across the sky. They are dark, almost lugubrious, and Elsa is shaken by a thunderous lightning before she sees it strike the road in front of them.
From inside the car, she watches the leafless trees rushing by as if it were a slow moving scene, their shapes looking like black tendrils distorted by the drops of rain that have yet to trickle down the cold surface of the window. She can hear the downpour rattling loudly against the roof. The sound is deafening, and she feels frightened.
Her father is driving, her mother is sitting in the passenger's seat, and she, in the back, is trapped by a belt that is making it hard for her to breathe—like a hand around her neck. The rain continues to pour down as the road begins to thin in front of them, causing Elsa to open her mouth out before she catches her father's eyes. He is turning his head to look at her, smiling, saying something she cannot hear. His voice is muted, drowned out by the overwhelming sound of the rain that goes on and on and on. She tries to tell him to look back at the road, but nothing comes out of her mouth except for a muffled scream that falls inward like a stone in a well as the belt continues to put an unbearable pressure on her chest and her neck. She is flaying her arms around even if she can't see them. Desperation is rising up in her throat like bile, bitter and full of terror. Her father is still looking at her, and Elsa can't do anything but stare into his eyes. They are soft and kind, just like the last time she got to see them.
She knows what's about to happen, and somewhere deep inside the hazy consciousness of this nightmare Elsa is trying to wake up. She feels her chest constricting into itself, rising and falling faster each time she heaves; it is her own attempt at screaming for the car keeps rushing forward and her father is still staring at her with a smile that is now plastered—nowhere near comforting anymore—until she sees her mother turn around as well and Elsa catches the headlights of a truck whose terrifying impact jolts her awake.
To darkness.
"Baby."
Her heart is beating wildly inside her chest and her mind is hazy as it stubbornly holds onto the last vivid remnants of her nightmare.
"Elsa."
Anna is right there with her, gently rubbing her arm. Elsa opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out except for a weary exhale. Her forehead is damp; so is her back. Her chest is still rising and falling erratically in her own attempt to calm down. The nightmare is dissipating, but the emotions remain. She can feel their vicious grip as they bubble up in her chest, tightening around her throat and forcing a choke out before she breaks.
Anna holds her as she cries. She runs a hand through her hair, whispers small words of comfort in her ear. The tears are stubborn in their release, but Elsa feels the sorrow nonetheless. She has no control; she knows it after all these years. All she can do is allow this moment to wash over her before letting it go.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles when she feels like she can breathe again.
"Don't apologize, baby."
Elsa closes her eyes again and lets out a shaky breath. In the moments that follow she moves to rest on her side while Anna does too, hugging her from behind. They lie like that for a few minutes; the silence of the room only interrupted by the sound of passing tires over pavement and a lonely siren in the distance. She tries to focus on the way Anna's body feels against her own, warm and comforting. It feels like safety.
"You wanna talk about it?" Anna asks as softly as a breath.
"It was just... pretty much the same dream as always."
"How far did you get?"
"The truck," Elsa murmurs. It is always the same nightmare, always the same sequence. She has described it to Anna only once and the fact that she remembers makes her feel like she's not alone in this.
"I've got you."
More seconds pass before Elsa speaks again. "It's their anniversary tomorrow."
She feels the arm around her waist tighten and a feathery kiss on the space behind her ear. "I know, baby..."
Elsa goes on breathing. She inhales, and exhales, then does it again. She is trying to stay calm because if she does, the burning sensation behind her eyelids can be kept at bay. It is always hard, the days around this date. A fresh reminder of the exhausted feelings she's carried inside of her for five years. She recalls the day after their death in acute detail: how silent she became, how guarded. And boy, how Rapunzel tried to get her to talk. If only so that Elsa could let out everything going on inside her mind. But how could she? She'd always thought. How do you explain a loss like this? One day they're here, the next day they're gone, and you can no longer function because grief has taken over your body like poison through your veins.
She'd withdrawn into herself until her cousin and the rest of the family learned that this was her way of coping. For grief is as unique as the person that carries it on their shoulders, and the way Elsa dealt with grief was through silence. A silence that was once reticent and is now nothing more than solemn contemplation. Because Anna is here, transforming everything she touches in her heart—from darkness to light—patient and willing to wait. She is here, holding her, knowing that this is exactly what Elsa needs to get through the night.
They don't speak much at all, and for a while the only thing Elsa manages to focus on is Anna's breathing. Slow and rhythmic; in tune with her heartbeat. There are no more nightmares but neither is there enough rest. Only memories. A myriad of them: the first time her dad took her to his job, for example. He'd let her wear a safety helmet—so large for her that it covered her eyes—even though they were nowhere near the construction site. A skeleton, he'd called it. Like a body.
She then goes through the memory of her mother picking her up from summer camp—the last time she ever attended at all—, and the way she'd caught Elsa's eye after she'd said goodbye to the only friend she'd made there. The first girl she ever liked as more than just a friend. Her mother had looked at her, and for a frightening second it seemed as though she knew (she must have—mothers always know), before she'd smiled, touched her cheek and said: "I'm sure you'll stay in touch, honey."
She recalls the first and only time she ever caught her parents argue even if, still now, she cannot remember the reason. She was seven, searching for an illicit ice cream sandwich hidden inside the freezer when the voices of her parents wafted in from the living room. They were speaking with stern hushed voices, frustrated with each other until they found her standing by the door, ice cream sandwich and all. Her father had gotten on one knee, beckoned her closer.
"Sometimes couples disagree on things," he'd said.
"Even when they love each other?" Elsa asked.
"Even when they love each other."
The morning after is a quiet one—a Tuesday. The sun is not out yet: it is 4:50 AM. Elsa has to get ready to go to the hospital, then come back home and study for her Step 2 exam (if she makes it back on time at all). Rinse and repeat, she'd told Anna as a joke just last week. Her girlfriend hadn't laughed. "Did you eat at all today?" she'd asked instead.
"Yes... Oatmeal in the morning, tea and a sandwich at noon."
Anna had stared. Her brow deepening into a frown, grumpy and concerned. "And you say my eating habits are bad..."
Today, it is almost the same. She wakes up to the mellow tune of her alarm before she dismisses it. The night prior provided very few hours of sleep and Elsa starts to feel the effects as soon as she opens her eyes. Right next to her Anna is stirring, slowly propping herself on her elbows: copper hair with a mind of its own and eyes opened to a slit. She smiles though, which makes Elsa smile as well even if she can't see it.
"Go back to sleep, baby," Elsa says. Her voice is nothing but a whisper.
"Wait," Anna mumbles, throwing an arm over her torso to prevent her from leaving the bed just yet. "How are you feeling?"
"Sleepy and sad," she says with crude honesty, "but I think I can get through the day just fine." A few extra minutes never hurt anybody, she figures, so she lies back down and allows herself this moment. The bed is warm and Anna's body is warmer, and maybe for just a little while she can pretend like she'll be staying under the covers at least until the sun comes out.
"I'd try to convince you to skip today but I know you won't do that."
"You know me too well."
Anna hums. "It's as obvious as two after one," she says—slurs, almost. "But seriously, will you at least text me or call me if you need me?"
"You have work today."
"So? I can make any excuse. I'll even sprain something and send myself to the hospital if I have to go see you."
Elsa laughs freely. It is so dark in the room it might as well be the middle of the night, she is far from well-rested, and the anniversary of her parents' death looms over her like an imminent storm. Yet, Anna still manages to make her laugh almost as soon as she wakes up.
"Please don't do anything crazy," she says.
"It's like you don't know me."
She smiles before letting out a sigh through her nose. Her eyelids are heavy. They move up and down slowly, until she catches herself closing them for longer than a wink, and stirs. "I really have to get up now."
"I know," Anna breathes. She connects her lips to the skin of her forehead. It is a kiss in a way, one that knows not how to end.
Elsa leaves the bed reluctantly, but not without pecking Anna on the lips and saying, "I love you."
The mundanity of getting ready is a necessary distraction. She showers quickly and let's her hair air dry as she does everything else. In the kitchen, she makes herself some toast; a black tea (she has yet to shake off the habit despite her cousin and Anna's endless teasing); a banana for protein; an apple for lunch. Back in her bedroom, the sky as viewed from the window is turning a lighter indigo blue. The first signs of sunrise draw nigh while she packs a couple of books, a notepad and a bottle of water. All of it done quietly even though she doesn't have to—Anna sleeps like a log.
Elsa looks at her girlfriend one last time with an expression full of yearning. Her eyes are achy, from tears or lack of sleep, but most likely both. She closes the door behind her and, quiet still, crosses the living room and leaves the apartment. Outside, the fresh, cool air brought by dawn serves to clear her mind. There is people already on the sidewalk, cars passing by on the streets. The city is coming back to life. It is 5:47 AM.
Rinse and repeat.
At 6:28 AM Elsa arrives at the hospital adjacent to Columbia's Medical Center. She shows her ID to the receptionist, makes her way to the third floor. Inside the locker room she does her hair up in a neat bun, dons a clean, white coat and washes her hands thoroughly before getting to work.
Pre-rounds go first so she meets with Peter, one of the senior residents of her medical team. His face often reminds her of Eugene's—the clean-shaven version—but Peter isn't goofy or sarcastic; he is serious and polite, and his tie is never out of place, and he cracks a smile usually twice a day: when he greets her in the mornings and when they say goodbye at the end of the day.
"Ready?" he asks just before meeting with their first patient.
Absolutely not.
"Ready," Elsa says.
This morning is a long one, and every chance it gets, her mind goes elsewhere. She thinks of her parents: abstract images blending in with one another, making up distorted series of memories that have no beginning and no end. Their first patient is a forty-year-old woman. She was diagnosed with asthma six months ago and Elsa asks her what she was prescribed to keep it under control. "Albuterol," the woman says, reading off from her doctor's note, "And something else I can't remember."
"Budesonide," Elsa prompts.
The woman nods, and her smile reminds her of her mother's, although Elsa is sure she's just imagining things.
She thinks of Anna as well, of how much she wishes she could have stayed in bed that morning. She goes through delusional daydreams, like having a picnic in Central Park now that the weather's nice, or going on a trip just the two of them. She'll ditch her responsibilities at the hospital and Anna can ditch Hans. No cellphones allowed. The second patient is a woman as well, this time twenty-five years old. She was admitted to the hospital because of fever, dizziness and shaking, and has been on the same medications for a year. Elsa goes over the laboratory results with Peter but needs to rub her eyes for a few seconds because she cannot focus.
"Check her pulse again," he tells her, and Elsa does as he's asked.
The heartbeat of a stranger through the stethoscope grounds her to reality once more.
On days when their lunch breaks overlap, she'll spend them with Sasha. They'll catch up, talk about anything that isn't related to medicine, or to the hospital and the patients it looks after. Although sometimes, on the hardest of days when a patient has to be sent to the OR or a case has hit too close to home, it will slip out into the conversation; like water through the cracks. However, today Elsa sits by herself, eating a sandwich from the cafeteria and the apple she's brought from home, holding up a book she can't read past the first page. Printed words on paper is all she sees.
The rest of the day passes her by as though in a blur, indiscernible and hazy. Nothing sticks except for the end of it, in which she sits on a bench inside the locker room, giving herself the time to be surrounded by silence—if only just for a little while. She's trying to decide what to do now, as if there was more than just one option. She wonders if she should text Anna, ask if she wants her to come over to her place tonight. It has been like this since Elsa started rotations back in January and by now nights have become her favorite part of the day.
She ends up calling Anna when she leaves the building. It is dark outside already, the bright lights of the hospital behind her acting out as a beacon—of hope or apprehension, sometimes she can't decide. Anna tells her to go home, that she will see her there, and Elsa agrees because she doesn't have it in her to insist on a different option. Inside the train she doesn't pull out a book to read, and after the fourth stop, she starts to nod off.
She makes it home some time past 7 PM. Anna is already there, and Elsa smiles and nearly collapses in her arms when she stands up from the couch to hug her. Rapunzel makes dinner, which isn't as disastrous anymore because she says she's been watching video tutorials so that she can feed her cousin better meals. And isn't Elsa proud of her?
"I sure am," she says, almost laughing but not there just yet.
And when Elsa has eaten and feels settled—grounded—once more at home, she goes to her room, walks past her bed and sits at her desk.
"What are you doing?" Anna asks from where she stands by the door.
"I can still squeeze in some time to study."
"Like hell you are," she says, already crossing the room. She grabs Elsa's hands and pulls her gently off the chair. "You can afford a night off."
Again, Elsa doesn't have it in her to protest. So she allows herself what she's been wanting all along: to be back in bed, in Anna's arms. They talk for a while in hushed tones that match the energy of the room, but mostly, Elsa listens. She listens to the way Anna's voice resounds differently when she has her ear pressed against her chest; and to the sound of her heartbeat becoming apparent in the pauses that she takes.
Elsa listens with a gentle smile until she falls asleep. Because the good thing about being exhausted is that she has no energy to be sad.
Weekends during ward rotations are practically non-existent. Saturdays are usually spent at the hospital and Sundays are spent recuperating the sanity lost throughout the week. Or studying.
For Elsa, it is a little bit of both.
Anna is away on another trip with Hans. It is her second one; this time to Chicago. She's been gone since Friday morning and should be back by this evening. Which means that Elsa has no worthy excuse for doing something that isn't studying. Rapunzel is out with Eugene, so not even her cousin is here to provide distraction in the form of clutter in the kitchen or pitapatting back and forth in the living room. It makes the silence in the apartment unusually wearing; sleep-inducing.
She knows that studying in the sofa is a questionable decision. The most optimal and efficient way to study is not by slouching in a comfy couch with a comfy pillow and a comfy blanket. That sounds like a teacher's voice. Maybe Elsa's starting to go crazy; hearing voices. A few nights of crappy sleep could do that to anyone (I'm gonna call her Sally) but maybe her subconsciousness had planned this all along. She doesn't feel like she's fully recuperated from that nightmare-laden Tuesday a few days ago. Like a domino effect. She feels like she could sleep until tomorrow.
Her six-hundred-page Step 2 guidebook sits on the coffee table—right next to a mug half empty with cold, black tea—open but almost forgotten. Elsa is going through sample questions, scribbling down notes on a pad that look nothing like her usual, neat handwriting.
A 32-year-old woman with type 1 diabetes mellitus has had progressive renal failure over the past 2 years. She has not yet started dialysis. Examination shows no abnormalities. Her hemoglobin concentration...
Elsa throws her head back. "Good God," she groans.
Maybe she could text Anna, see what she's up to. But Elsa knows what she's up to because Anna already told her. She's attending some conference with Hans—Hansel, her cousin calls him. Or John. Anything that isn't his name. It'd started off as a joke and now she can't stop. Not that Elsa really minds anyway.
She looks down at the notepad and realizes that she's started doodling all over the yellow, ruled page. There's a few shapes that look like stars, a few hearts; the letter A over and over.
She huffs out a sigh. What if she'd said yes when Anna had asked?
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" she'd said back on Thursday evening.
Elsa had stopped midway through folding one of Anna's shirts. It was one of her favorites: a violet, short-sleeved polo with a drawn white cat flipping the bird as it poked out of its tiny front pocket. Elsa had no idea why she'd chosen to take that shirt. It didn't exactly scream professionalism.
"You wouldn't be able to stay even if I wanted you to," she'd replied. Not out of spite. It was the truth.
"I can always try."
"It's just a weekend, baby," she insisted, standing up to hook her arms around her waist. "I'll be okay."
Yeah, right. If okay means doodling on a notepad, drinking hot-gone-cold tea, hearing voices, and pretending like she's studying for a nine-hour-long exam for almost three hours.
Her cellphone buzzes twice on the coffee table and Elsa reaches for it a little too desperately. She thinks it is Anna, because who else texts her at random? But it isn't. It is Kristoff.
Hey blondie, the text reads.
She stares at the message with bewilderment. Hi, she replies, then reconsiders. How are you? she adds.
Two texts come almost simultaneously. Doing okay and: What r u up to?
Elsa looks down at her notes/doodles and then at her behemoth of a guidebook. Nothing, she types (it isn't even a lie), but that sounds too short and formal so she deletes it. Not much, just chilling on the couch. Yes, much better.
It isn't until after she's pressed send that Elsa notices she did not reciprocate the question, but Kristoff doesn't seem to take it to heart because he's already moved on: Did u eat already? I was thinking about getting lunch in case u wanna join me.
This whole thing is bizarre, she thinks. For a moment Elsa has to rummage through her memories in order to conjure up the last time she and Kristoff hung out by themselves but comes up empty because, she realizes, they have never spent time alone. It isn't that she's never wanted to, it is just that the occasion has never arisen. This could be the first time. It's Anna's voice now, clear and cheerful. She's not going crazy, but she figures that going out for lunch is much better than taking an impromptu nap and messing with her sleep schedule even more. She could even take a break from her couch musings while she's at it.
That sounds lovely, she types, What sort of place did you have in mind?
Elsa reads her message once more after sending it and feels like laughing and cringing at the same time. "You text like a sixty-year-old college professor," Rapunzel had said once.
Maybe she did.
They end up meeting an hour and a half later outside of Chelsea Market. It has been weeks since she last saw Kristoff—it happened somewhere near the end of January, when she was barely getting started with rotations and she'd had the brilliant yet nearly disastrous idea of making dinner for everyone at their apartment—but Elsa doesn't realize this until he's already got his arms around her. And what a good idea this was, getting off the couch.
Inside, it is busy as ever. What was once a factory complex is now a market bustling with activity. Stationary shops stand amidst handcrafted jewelry, artisan coffee and imported candles. And all around: a kaleidoscope of international cuisines. Asian, Italian, French, German. The food is lavish here, almost sinful, but neither Kristoff nor Elsa have a hard time choosing what to eat.
They sit at the bar of a ramen shop. Kristoff asks her if she wants a beer and when she declines, he opts for a coke instead. Elsa finds the decision a bit curious but when he sees the expression on her face all he does is shrug.
"How's the studying going?" he asks after they've placed their orders.
"Not too bad," she says, "but I think I needed a break today. It's been a long week."
Kristoff nods, takes a sip from his coke. "Anna tells me you've been spending a lot of hours at the hospital."
"Just the usual, honestly. I'm on wards right now so the hours are longer because everything is so unpredictable. Sometimes I leave at five, other times I'll leave as late as nine."
"It has to be worth it though, right?"
"For the most part it is."
"What about the other part?"
Elsa cracks a smile. "Sometimes it's hard feeling like I have no time for myself," she tells him, "Or anyone for that matter. So I have to constantly remind myself why it is that I started in the first place."
There is curiosity behind Kristoff's eyes that does not manifest itself into his words. "I don't know how you guys do it. I would probably cry at the first sight of blood."
"You see blood all the time in those video games you play."
Kristoff makes a show of flexing his biceps. "You see these guns?" he says, "They're all just for show."
She laughs, drawing a side smile out of him. It is easier after this—to simply talk and have a good time. And as they eat from their ramen bowls and Elsa finally starts to let go of some of the pressure; the studying; the seemingly endless hours of work; she is reminded once again of why he and Anna are so close. He is a simple guy, noble and trustworthy, to the point that Elsa doesn't feel the need to maintain her guard at all times. Which makes her wonder, where does the line rest between friendship and acquaintanceship, and how blurry can it be? Do people just say, I'm going to call you my friend now, and decide that they mean it? How does one know they are officially friends with somebody else? How did Elsa know with Sasha?
Suddenly, Kristoff bumps his chest with his fist and burps without covering his mouth.
Elsa tilts her head in amusement. Maybe this is it.
They soon leave the ramen shop and Chelsea Market altogether. It is warm outside but not smoldering—a Spring afternoon in the city. The cool breeze coming from the river sneaks through the streets and alleys closest to the Hudson; tempting, like a calling. They make their way to the piers without so much as a plan, both with the intention of walking off the food they've just had. Over in Chicago, Anna is on her way to the airport. She's sent a text to Elsa, all exclamation marks and smiley faces, and Elsa can't help but smile widely because it might have only been two full days and a handful of hours, but she's missed her.
She figures she always will, regardless of time.
"Is that Anna?" Kristoff asks.
Elsa nods. "She's on her way to the airport."
"Tell her to make sure she bought me a keychain. I can't welcome her back in here without my keychain."
She shakes her head but writes the message anyway. The response comes almost immediately: Tell him I got the pink bedazzled heart he wanted.
Kristoff laughs hard at this when she shows it to him but what she—and probably Anna—don't know is that he'll attach it to his keys as soon as she gives it to him.
They walk until they reach Pier 45. Dozens of people are resting on the lawn, basking in the sun. The lonely ones are reading books, looking at their phones; quality time with themselves in this hustling city that never seems to leave them alone. The ones in groups are talking—discussing life and work and family—, sipping sparkling water and wine coolers, because all seems legal and fair on a Sunday at the park. A shirtless man is doing yoga on a mat, droplets of sweat stuck to his reddened back. A girl is walking her bike, a professional camera hanging from her neck. In the distance: the Freedom Tower reaching up to the blue, cloudless sky.
They stop at the rail of the pier before leaning on it. The river flows gently under the sun, its ripples glistening like crystals, and everything around her suddenly makes Elsa wish that Anna was right here with them. She misses her—yearns for her—and it hits her in that moment that she has missed her for longer than just two days and a handful of hours.
"You know, I was thinking," Kristoff suddenly says, "Do you think Anna is overworking herself?"
Aren't we all, Elsa thinks wearily, but she knows what Kristoff means. Yet, she chooses to remain silent. Something about discussing Anna when she isn't present doesn't sit well with her.
"You do think so, don't you?"
"Yes..."
"Maybe we should do an intervention."
She raises an eyebrow. "I don't think she'd appreciate that. Besides, she says it's good for her career."
And Elsa believes it. She's choosing to believe, above anything else, that one day all of this will be worth it.
"But she's not writing," Kristoff points out.
"No," she says lowly, "she's not."
Elsa thinks about this even as they continue to talk. Even as they make their way back into the city; while Kristoff hugs her goodbye and says that this was nice, that they should do it more often—all of them, or just the two of them—and Elsa catches a tinge of sadness in his eyes. She thinks about this as she makes her way back home. As she waves at Marta who is sweeping the dust out of the bodega, and as she goes up the stairs to the second floor.
She finds Rapunzel sprawled on the couch watching TV before she greets her with a smile and very few words. She sits on the arm of the couch, listens to her cousin talk for a few minutes. Part of her wants to stay in the living room and be distracted for the rest of the day but she feels like she can't afford that any longer. So she declines Rapunzel's invitation to sit and watch something with her, promising that next time she will. She'll even let her choose, she says as she gathers the books she's left on the coffee table and the notepad that has an embarrassing amount of hearts scribbled on it.
She carries everything to her bed instead of her desk—efficient studying is not aided by sitting on your bed. There it is, Sally the teacher again. But Sally can suck it. She sits on it, under the covers just out of spite. Maybe she can get through a few more pages of the guidebook before calling it a day. Maybe then Anna will let her know she's here.
But in the end, Sally is right, because Elsa ends up falling asleep some time after she's read everything about hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. She dreams for a while; of broken glass on pavement glittering like sunlight on a flowing river; and of Anna, standing inside of an airport, waving at her goodbye for what feels like forever.
Elsa wakes up not knowing how much time has passed, to a scent that is familiar and a pair of soft lips on her forehead. The lamp by her side is on now. Outside, it is nighttime. She registers the notepad being pulled out from under her hands and stirs further when she feels Anna sitting on the edge of the bed. There is another kiss on her forehead and one more on her lips. With her eyes half closed, she smiles.
"Hi."
"Hi, sweetheart," Anna says, "Keep sleeping. It's late."
"I missed you."
She smiles tenderly. "I missed you, too."
The last thing Elsa registers is the shirt Anna is wearing: the violet polo one with the white cat flipping the bird from where it hides inside its front pocket. It is one of her favorites.
Another two weeks pass before Elsa is able to take a real breather. Now that inpatient rotations are over so are the odd, grueling hours spent in the hospital. This means no more rising up before the sun. No more express naps in the train, or speed-lunches before a lecture, or coming home only to bury her nose in a book. No more feeling like she's on autopilot—if only temporarily. In the meantime, she gets to do clinic rotations, leaving her weekends free to spend more time with Anna.
It feels glorious, really. A small joy in life.
They've come to Reggio—have walked, in fact, all the way from Anna's apartment to the café. It had been Anna's idea all along and Elsa had eagerly agreed (if she had proposed bungee-jumping she probably would have said yes, too). All she wanted was to spend time with her, wherever and however that was. Because the biggest constant in her life right now had been cemented in the comfort of Anna—unwavering, very much like her support—on nights and early mornings, and brief pauses in between. Present in the silent moments they shared in bed, where no words were needed to express something as inherent as love. Present in the simple act of listening. And present, too, in Elsa's idealistic hopes confined in the little notes she's often left behind, when she's thought Anna needed them the most. Something that, she has noticed, has been happening more and more these days.
This early in the afternoon Reggio is a quiet place. The hissing sound of the espresso machine is sporadic, the conversations amongst strangers nothing but a quiet backdrop. Elsa sits taking notes, studying, pushing the sounds that surround her to a place where she can hear them without having to register them. She is able to block everything out except for the girl sitting across from her.
"I hate writing..."
She looks up, arching an eyebrow. "No you don't."
Anna slouches. Her journal sits on the table, open but blank. "No, I don't. But I also really do."
"And how does that work exactly?"
"I love the action itself. But I hate what it takes to get there."
Elsa observes her for a moment; the disheartened look on her face. It makes her close her own book and set it to the side.
"Talk to me, baby."
"About what?"
"About whatever's on your mind."
Anna adverts her eyes. It is so unlike her, Elsa thinks, to be this guarded.
"It's like I can't write anymore..."
"What do you mean by that?"
The girl is fiddling with her pen—an increasingly habitual action. "I mean just that," she says. "I used to be able to create stuff. Now it just feels as if I didn't know how. Like a switch has been turned off inside my mind or something."
"Maybe you're just going through a block," she suggests.
"No, this is different... I can feel it."
Elsa nibbles at her lower lip. It has been so long since she's seen Anna like this. So defeated; so withdrawn. "Is there something I can do?"
"No," she responds, then begins to shake her head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so cold."
"No, it's not that. I just wish there was something I could do to help you get it back, or to make you feel inspired again. I hate seeing you like this."
Anna shrugs despondently before saying, "Imagine if creativity could be passed from person to person via telepathy."
Elsa can tell this is an attempt to lighten the mood, but the laugh that Anna lets out is hollow, and she can only respond with a smile. If only I could, she thinks, I would give you the entire world.
"We could always give it a try," she jokes.
Anna cracks a grin and right there, in that small gesture, is an image of her usual self that makes Elsa submerge herself deep into a cold feeling of nostalgia. As if the sight were nothing more than a memory already.
All of the sudden, Elsa stands up with resolution. She takes one last sip of her already cold tea and begins to gather her books before putting them back in her bag. Anna remains sitting on the chair, looking at her with curiosity and a small, bemused smile.
"What are you doing?"
"We are going to get some fresh air, my love."
"But you have to study."
"Studying is for losers," she says.
The sound of Anna's joyful laugh makes her heart swell. Just like the first time she heard it.
"You do not mean that."
"Let me have it," Elsa grins.
They step out of Reggio and onto MacDougal Street. The crowd is always different on the weekends around here. Or maybe, Elsa thinks, it's not the people that are different, but their intentions—well-tempered, less prone to pressure. They then begin to head north, passing by NYU's School of Law. She catches Anna watching the brown-bricked building as they begin to cross the street and wonders if she misses school, if perhaps she thinks that life in college was easier than it is now.
Washington Square Park is vibrant with life, and once again Elsa finds herself thinking back to intentions. Students are not strutting back and forth trying to catch the next lecture on time. They are sitting by the fountain, eating ice cream, bathing in the sun, taking customary pictures of the Empire State Building as it stands framed by the monumental, marbled arch. People all around are occupying the benches as though out of a lazy Sunday habit. As if everyone here were taking a breather along with the two of them.
Elsa can hear the sound of a piano wafting through the air, like a tune serving as background for a scene. Surely not an intention, but a coincidence. What Elsa wanted was for Anna to take everything in just like she's doing now. For she'd said it once: she drew inspiration out of things like this. People watching is where it's at, she often said. So why not give it a go today? Perhaps Elsa couldn't give her the words she needed, nor the ability to create, nor inspiration itself. But she could always try to help her find it, no matter how long it took.
"You see that man over there?" Anna suddenly says, nodding ahead.
Elsa glances in the direction they're heading. It would be easier to know which man she's referring to if there weren't so many.
"The one with the fedora hat," she adds, almost reading her mind.
"Okay," Elsa smiles, "I see him now."
"His name is Frank Lombardi," says Anna. "He collects butterflies, likes to read Proust in the park and play Bingo every Wednesday night with his friends."
She turns back to her. "You just made all of this up, didn't you?"
"Sort of. His name really is Frank Lombardi."
"How do you know?"
Anna smiles. "He told me once."
"May I ask how that happened?"
"He comes here often and usually he just reads but sometimes he does people watching too. So once when I was still in school I sat next to him. You know, close but not close enough to freak him out. We did some small talk after that and he mentioned his name... You know how it is."
Elsa laughs. She really, really doesn't.
She lets Anna guide her through the park, thinking, with an affectionate sort of amusement: Let her have it. For there is something about Anna's demeanor that makes her feel like it's necessary for her to take the lead, for her to go where she feels a calling, and for Elsa to stay by her side.
Anna eventually takes her to a bench, tugging at her hand so that she'll take a seat next to her. There is a man playing a baby grand piano not too far from them. The instrument is coated a worn black, with scratches of use on its lid and a sticker that says This Machine Kills Fascists on its side. The man: he is lost in the music he is playing, his tattooed fingers moving aimlessly over the keys while his eyes close from time to time; only on certain notes; the ones he feels the most.
And Elsa, she is watching Anna. Her gaze traces over every line of her face as she goes on watching the man play, and just like many times before, it lingers on the emotion she finds behind her eyes. Expressive, even when they're not, Elsa has always known they're unable to conceal a thing. Through the canopy of the trees, sunlight filters and makes her eyes shimmer like blue with sparkles of gold. But simmering right below, Elsa finds something else. Like a distant sadness, vague and faint; one Elsa cannot yet reach. And she wonders: how many hours has she ever spent looking at Anna? Doting on those freckles and brushing the tips of her fingers across her skin. As if looking was never enough. As if she were trying to memorize the slightest of details that make up her face for fear of losing her.
Suddenly, Anna begins to smile. "If music be the food of love..."
"Shakespeare?"
Anna turns to her. In her eyes, tenderness has taken over. Her smile is spreading wider—more genuine— but somehow the sight of it only makes Elsa's heart ache. Where are you? she wants to ask. Where have you been this whole time?
But Anna is already glancing down at her lips, leaning closer until she's sharing the same breath with her.
The helpless honesty of their kiss shakes Elsa to the core. It grounds her, reaching into the depths of her heart and dissipating the murky traces of fear that were starting to take hold of it. Her lips move against Anna's, tenderly and without a hurry. She wants her to have it all; everything Elsa has not been able to give her through neither words nor actions. And the way Anna kisses her back with as much vehemence, in the loving pressure of her lips and the gentle hand that has gone to touch her cheek, she can feel her saying: I'm right here.
The day she gets the results back from her Step 2 exam is the day she sleeps for twelve hours straight.
She receives the score report via email and her nerves are so high-strung that she asks Anna to read them out loud for her. The relief had been instantaneous, even if Anna had said in between kisses that she'd never had a doubt. And even if Rapunzel only said Duh after she'd burst into the room without knocking and almost caught them in the middle of a sex-driven celebration.
Now she wakes up well past an hour she's grown accustomed to. Sore but blissful. Well-rested—a brand new woman.
The bed is empty and cold. Her room is quiet except for the voices coming in from the kitchen through the shut door. Elsa rises slowly; lingers a little by draping an arm over the pillow Anna has taken up as her own by now, and breathes in the familiar scent she's left behind. The memory of last night makes her smile, perhaps even blush. It had been a while, she thinks, since a night like that.
Outside of the room it smells like coffee—and something else. She finds Anna and Rapunzel in the kitchen, both looking at the toaster rather suspiciously.
"What are you guys doing?" she asks, startling them both.
"Nothing—"
"There's a piece of bread stuck in the toaster."
Rapunzel looks at Anna aghast, indignant and betrayed.
Elsa walks closer. "What's your beef with toasters?"
"Has it ever occurred to you that I just have very bad luck in the kitchen?"
"Nope." She sits on one of the stools across from them before stealing a fresh strawberry out of the bowl they have placed nearby. Anna approaches her with a smile, forgetting all about the toaster and Rapunzel's accusatory eyes.
"Good morning," she says, "Did you sleep well?"
"You know I did." She smirks when her girlfriend places herself between her legs, hands gently squeezing her thighs, and lips opening up to bite into the strawberry Elsa feeds her.
"You two are so corny it makes me nauseous."
She turns to her cousin. "Don't think I haven't heard you and Eugene using baby voices with each other."
Rapunzel flips her off while Anna laughs and simultaneously tries her best to wipe the strawberry juice that is now dripping down her chin. This is the kind of morning Elsa had been needing for some time. Stress-free and without expectations; mellow and slow-moving; one where she doesn't have to worry about anything except for whether or not they will have to replace the toaster again.
Something then catches her attention: a faint vibration that she feels through the arm she has propped on the counter. The screen of Anna's phone lights up with an unread message and Elsa glances at it out of reflex, regretting it immediately.
"Your boss is texting you," she points out.
"On a Saturday?" Rapunzel asks. She's forgotten about the toaster as well—has moved on to bigger, better things.
Anna grabs her phone but doesn't unlock it just yet. "I already know what he wants."
"Which is..?"
Even though it is Rapunzel who asks this, Anna ends up looking at Elsa when she responds. "They're throwing a birthday party for Lauren."
"Lauren, the boss of your boss?"
A nod.
"How old is she?" her cousin asks as she places her elbows on the counter. "Is she a milf?"
"Rapunzel!"
"What?"
"She kind of is—"
Elsa whips her head back. "Reallynow?"
Anna shrugs, grinning. "Not like it matters anyway."
"You two should totally go."
"No way I'm crashing a party."
"You're not crashing it if you're invited too," Anna says.
"What? Why?"
"Why not? Hans said it's a plus one kind of thing..." she trails off after this just as her focus shifts down to her hands. "But we don't have to go at all. It's totally up to you."
Rapunzel seems to sense a shift in their conversation because she's suddenly pushing herself away from the counter. She's mumbling something about having to pee, that she'll be right back, and Can you two please not finish the strawberries without me? It isn't until the girls hear the door to the bathroom close behind her that Anna speaks again.
"We really don't have to go."
Elsa reaches for her hands in order to pull her closer again. "Were you not going to tell me about the party?"
"Well... I know how you feel about Hans."
She bites her lip. This is far from what she wanted, and exactly the reason why she'd fought so hard in London to suppress how she felt. Anna should not have to conform to the irrational opinions she has on her boss—a man whom she barely even knows. And while Hans barely shows up in their conversations anymore, Anna shouldn't have to walk on eggshells or tiptoe around certain topics to save Elsa the trouble. Which is why, she decides, something needs to change.
"Do youwant to go?"
Anna adverts her eyes for a second. "I could use a distraction," she admits.
Elsa smiles softly, bringing her hands up to her lips. "Then I'm all up for it."
As if on cue, the door to the bathroom opens again and out comes Rapunzel. "So," she says, "Are we going to Le Milf's party or what?"
"Are you sure this dress isn't too short?"
"I think you look like a snack."
Elsa smirks. "That's not what I asked."
"It means no in my language."
It is close to evening, and they are even closer to the party. Elsa keeps glancing down at the pavement of the sidewalk, mindful of the cracks, the cellar doors, the ventilation grates. Walking the streets of New York in high heels should be a sport, she thinks. An extreme one. She is wearing the powdery blue dress tonight, the one Anna said she loved because it is the dress she wore the second time they met. This time, however, she has platinum ankle strap heels on, not flats. Hazardous, no matter how much she may secretly love it.
And there is no doubt about Anna loving it, too. It's the height difference, she'd said. Because Anna had opted for a forest green blazer on top of a white blouse, matching, fitted slacks and black oxfords. No words, Elsa had when she saw her. No thoughts either. It somehow made her look forward to this party, if only because she would be walking in with Anna by her side, and even if part of her still felt a pang of apprehension. She couldn't shake off the feeling that she was an intruder joining a party where everyone had at least one thing in common—be it books, or Lauren, or money made through published words. But Elsa knew that Anna wanted this—was looking forward to it in its entirety. She could tell because of how much thought she'd put into her outfit, and how much she talked about the people Elsa would get to meet. She could tell because it had been a while since Elsa had seen her this excited about anything at all.
A breeze riffles the locks of her hair. She's gone for an updo tonight, loose but well-fixed. Something she doesn't have to actively look after throughout the night. It complimented her, made her look somewhat elegant and poised, even if Elsa had not wanted to admit that the word impress had gone through her mind.
They arrive at the building where Anna works. The lobby is quiet, and so is the security guard who greets them with a smile as they head for the elevator. Inside, Anna pushes the PH button. She seems to wait until the doors close in order to place herself in front of Elsa, standing with a wider stance than usual, placing her hands on Elsa's hips. Because of the high heels and Anna's oxfords the height difference is more significant. But that doesn't seem to deflate Anna's ego.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself quite a lot in that suit."
"You think?" she says, grinning again. "No wonder people call them power suits."
Elsa taps her forehead twice with the tip of her index finger. "Don't let it get to your head," she teases.
The girl hums and steps even closer before squeezing her hipbones in a way that makes her want to press forward and into Anna's body. Elsa grips the bar behind her when she finds herself pinned, securely and possessively. She leans closer—ignoring for a second the numbers increasing in the screen of the elevator—and lets Anna capture her lips in a searing kiss that doesn't last long enough. She feels warm when they reach the glass doors that lead to the rooftop, and it isn't because of the pleasant, late Spring weather.
In New York, height equals status. This is the first thing that goes through her mind when they step onto the rooftop already crowded with the type of people she'd expected to see. The setting is casual: wood-framed sofas with white pillows line up one of its walls. They're already occupied by men in suits—no ties, unbuttoned collars—and women who make Elsa inevitably think of the word impress. On the other side of the rooftop is a bar set up with two bow-tied bartenders skillfully handling bottles of liquor, cocktail shakers and pristine glasses of wine. There is music coming from somewhere, mellow—generic almost—interwoven with conversations and laughter. Overall, it is nice. A setting Anna most likely feels comfortable in. One that Elsa tries her best to assimilate in order to blend in.
They make a beeline for the bar. It's a makeshift, Elsa thinks. Because she highly doubts there is a bar permanently set up in the rooftop of an office building. But then again, what does she know? They order wine: cabernet for Elsa, pinot grigio for Anna—reds make her girlfriend sleepy.
Once the glasses of wine are in their hands there is a lull in their decision-making. Elsa is letting Anna guide her; choose for the two of them. She knows a handful of people here, knows the place itself. So Elsa smiles and nods when she suggests they walk around for a bit and see where the night takes them. All of this makes her reminisce the first time they met, except that tonight she is already and irrevocably in love.
Along the way Elsa is introduced to a few people. They're agents, mostly, while a couple of them are assistants just like Anna. They are all young, although still older than them. But the thing that she notices the most is the way Anna's demeanor shifts around them. She becomes demure, almost blatantly shy; something that doesn't ring true to her nature, but something that Elsa doesn't think is appropriate to point out under the current circumstances. What she notices, too, is the way Anna is craning her neck as though trying to spot—or avoid—someone.
"I want you to meet Lauren," Anna says all of the sudden. And how does she always do that? Answering the questions in Elsa's mind as if she could hear them out loud.
"I would help you if I knew what she looked like," she says.
"Like a milf."
Elsa fails miserably at keeping a straight face until Anna looks at her and bursts out laughing. The sound is joyful; unapologetic in a room full of people who care a little too much; and Elsa can't help but think, There you are.
"What?" Anna asks, still giggling.
"Nothing..."
"Tell me."
She reaches for her hand. "I just missed you, that's all."
Anna looks down with a bashful smile. "I missed you, too," she says before kissing the back of her hand.
They are distracted with each other for a while—somewhere by the edge of the rooftop, facing away from the party—until they are through with their first glass of wine and Elsa feels herself begin to loosen up. They talk about rotations and work at the agency; about Kristoff, and writing, and about how wonderful it would be if they could just pack some bags and travel all over the world. They do so as if they were catching up after being apart for a while until it hits her that, in a sense, they are. Because no matter how many nights, early mornings and scattered weekends they may have spent together for the past few months, Elsa had slowly begun to feel as though time were slipping away from them the same way sand escapes through the crevices between her fingers.
In the end, it will be this which will make the rest of the night worth it.
They end up spotting Lauren on the other side of the rooftop, near the brick parapet along the edge, and Elsa would giggle again behind her second glass of cabernet at the thought of the word milf if it weren't because it's Hans (and co.) whom she's talking with.
"We don't have to go right now," Anna tells her, but Elsa is already shaking her head.
"I don't want you to feel this way every time I'm in the same room as Hans."
"I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
She regards her in silence for a prolonged moment. "You know I love you, right?"
Anna looks confused. "Yeah..?"
"So let me do this," she says, "I want to get to know this part of your life, and if that includes Hans then so be it. I promise I'll be okay." She pecks her lips for good measure and mirrors the smile that grows across Anna's face.
They come closer until Lauren't eyes fall on them. The woman gives out an expression of pleasant surprise when she sees Anna before she smiles, ignoring the rest of what's being said by the girl standing closely next to Hans. At this, he turns around as well, but Elsa misses the look on his face because she's busy trying to focus on the person they're here to see.
Fully joining the group by now, Anna wishes her a happy birthday as she steps in for a brief hug. Elsa stands by, enduring the brief but universal awkward pause that precedes being introduced.
"This is Elsa," Anna says, and under the decorative, dim lights of the rooftop Elsa could swear she can see her blush when she adds: "My girlfriend."
"Happy birthday," is the first thing she blurts out at the same time that Lauren extends the hand not holding a martini glass. It is perfectly manicured; the nails an immaculate crimson red. Her handshake is firm as she thanks Elsa and holds her gaze with an increasingly charming smile that puts her at ease.
Coming from her left is Hans. "I'm glad you two could make it."
Easy, she thinks when she looks at him, You have no reason to go ballistic. She goes through the process of greeting him in what she hopes are decent enough manners and with a decent amount of nicety. The girl standing close by is his date—Amanda—a seemingly normal person who appears to be more into Hans than he is into her, if the way she looks at him while he barely spares a glance is anything to go by.
Lauren is... well, she's an attractive woman most likely in her mid-forties. She is the same height as Elsa in high heels, but something about the way she carries herself makes her look even taller. Impressive doesn't quite cut it. Striking and imposing are much closer to it. She effortlessly commands attention without appearing overbearing and Elsa is quick in understanding why Anna always says she strives to be a little bit more like her every time she brings her up. Hell, if confidence stuck like the flu Elsa wouldn't mind spending some time around her either.
"So what do you do, Elsa?" Lauren asks, and she thinks that this must be one of tonight's most concurred questions. Tell me what you do and I'll decide how high up you can be. She takes a sip of her wine, willing herself to stay focused. Anna is busy talking to Hans about something or the other. It is just her and Lauren right now, and the word impress flashes through her mind again. But how do you impress somebody you barely even know?
"I'm studying medicine," she responds, "Cardiology."
Lauren raises her eyebrows. "My brother is a cardiologist, though quite frankly I still don't know how he made it. He's such a tool."
"Maybe the complexities of the human body came easily to him."
The woman laughs. "Unlikely. Except for him I've always admired people in the medical field. It's a lifetime commitment."
"It sure feels like it."
"What year are you?"
"I've only just finished my fourth year. I'm graduating next week."
Another smile is drawn out of Lauren; small but enthralling. "One more thing to celebrate then."
"Congratulations," Hans chimes in, suddenly interested in their conversation. "Anna's been talking for months about how much time you've had to spent at the hospital. I was sure it'd pay off."
Elsa turns to her girlfriend who seems embarrassed even though she doesn't think she should be. She then opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by a man coming up from behind her, drawing Lauren's attention away from the group, and asking if he can steal her away for a moment. She excuses herself not without thanking Anna for coming and telling Elsa how nice it was to meet her.
"So what's the next step?" Hans asks when she's gone. He's looking squarely at Elsa; a glass of whiskey held in one hand while the other hides in the pocket of his gray suit pants.
"Residency," she responds. She feels strangely uncomfortable with Hans speaking directly to her. She wants Anna to chip in with a random comment or maybe even a joke—for Amanda to suggestively stroke his arm and say, I'm going to go powder my nose in the bathroom, wanna come with?
"And that is... what? Three, four more years of your life?"
"It is usually three years of residency and three more years of cardiology fellowship."
"And why cardiology?"
Elsa drinks in order to ground herself. She catches Anna's eye in the process and realizes, with a certain amount of dread, that she's looking back expectantly.
"Because I have always been interested in the functions of the heart," she deadpans.
Hans smirks and goes silent for enough seconds that Elsa starts to wonder if he can see through her lie. He then takes the last swig of his drink before looking at Anna.
"This is what I was talking about," he says.
"What was that?" Anna asks.
Hans turns to Elsa again. He is grinning by now—a little too cynical—, openly enthusiastic about wherever this conversation is going. It makes her wonder just how much he's had to drink.
"When we took that trip to LA," he tells her, "we had this whole conversation about how love can be a dangerous thing for a writer. And I told her that love shouldn't be the only thing she thinks about."
Elsa frowns. She doesn't recall Anna ever telling her about this. "What would be so wrong about that?"
"Nothing," Anna mumbles.
Hans ignores them both for a second, handing the empty glass to Amanda. "Do me a favor, sweetheart. Can you bring me another whiskey—straight—not on the rocks?"
Get it yourself, Elsa wants to say, but the girl is already holding onto the glass and walking away with nothing but a smile.
"Elsa, you'll agree with me," Hans resumes, "You're spending years of your life and hours of your day working to become a doctor. It's demanding and time consuming, but you do it anyway because you love it."
"I do."
"Even if that means sacrificing time with the people you love."
She finds herself clenching her teeth. Next to her, Anna steps closer. "No one is sacrificing anything, Hans."
"Isn't time being sacrificed?" He asks, insistent beyond belief. He is smiling, increasingly elated, as if he knew he could win this argument if only he pushed hard enough for it. "This is what I was telling you, Anna. People can't just live for the sake of love. There are things that must be sacrificed if you wanna accomplish something in life."
"That is extremely cynical," Elsa says. She's trying to keep herself in check—forcing herself not to cross a line.
She promised Anna it would be okay.
"I'd like to think it's realistic. I had to do it myself to get to where I am today. Ask Lauren, she will tell you the same thing."
"Can we stop talking about this?" Anna pleads.
"Why? It's important that you hear this. Even your girlfriend here is setting an example."
"My girlfriend has a name, Hans," she quickly retorts, but somewhere below her own anger Elsa finds enough rationality to place a calming hand on her arm. When Anna looks at her, she faintly shakes her head.
"Look," Hans says; almost laughing; raising up his hands in mocking defeat. "I just don't want you wasting your potential, that's all."
"Quite bold of you to assume that she is," Elsa defies.
"It's more of a making sure she doesn't."
Amanda arrives a moment later with a brand new glass of whiskey. Like some model showcasing a new product—oblivious and all smiles. Hans takes the glass, drops a sloppy kiss on her cheek that makes her giggle, and the only thing that goes through Elsa's mind is that she wishes she could punch him in the face.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Anna suddenly mumbles, only glancing at her once before walking away.
Elsa feels the emotions she'd kept at bay burst under their own pressure. This is enough for her to take a single step closer. Enough for her to catch the glossiness in his eyes: he reeks of whiskey.
"You may be her boss," she states coldly, "But don't you dare pretend like you have her best interests at heart."
She doesn't wait to process the now hardened look on his face, nor does she give herself the time to think of anything else except for going after Anna. She leaves without looking back, her hands shaking with repressed anger.
How did things go so awfully wrong?
hi. so first of all sorry for the cliffhanger. i had another ending in mind and then the scene took me elsewhere and i was like, how dare you. second, im making Lauren look like Cate Blanchett in Carol. why? because i can.
now third thing... i needed to let you guys know that it will probably take me longer to update this time than is usual. life happens and there are certain things right now that i need to deal with, assimilate and i guess move on from. i am also (fucking finally) moving back to Mexico, which isn't really so shitty so let us not fret over that, though i am gonna be very busy in the next couple of weeks with packing and adulting (yay).
btw please don't think that i'm giving up on the story. if anything, i need writing now more than ever to get through this. i just... need some time yeah? feel free to hit me up whenever, i'm not going anywhere :)
stay safe everyone 3