Rachel's consciousness was pulled away by the vibrations of her phone. The screen read Mom Lisa Cuddy. A picture of her, dolled up and smiling on the day of Rachel's graduation, glowed brightly in the dimness of Rachel's unfurnished apartment.

She picked it up. "Yeah, mom?"

"How was your week?"

"Fine."

"You're starting your residency at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching tomorrow, right? Are you prepared? Do you need any help with anything?"

"Yup. Nope."

Rachel heard an audible sigh on the other end of the line.

"I just wanted to ask–do you know who runs the diagnostic department?"

"What?" Rachel had never heard of that before. That didn't even exist in hospitals. At least, normal ones. This was the hospital Dr. Lisa Cuddy used to run. It was surely not normal.

"It's a department I created there. I never told you. Well, don't worry about it."

Rachel managed to squeak out an "oh" before her graying mother began to talk about other, mundane things, like the weather or her love life. Boredom was a state that Rachel was constantly in, but never used to. She was acutely aware of the clock above an old painting ticking, the flames beneath her pot of instant ramen licking the bottom (she had a thought of putting her hand into it and could hear the sound of sizzling flesh), the mess of papers and books strewn about her apartment, of mysterious piercing eyes glaring at her...

"Bye Rachel. I love you."
"I love you, too." Her phone no longer held her mother's voice.

So many eyes. Ever since she was a toddler, people watched her. Not because they wanted to hold her back, of course, but because they wanted to see where she ended up. Rachel felt that she had ended up far enough and was tired of those eyes always glancing in her memory. How happy she must be, completing medical school at the ripe old age of 21 in a prestigious BS/MD program. Perfect grades, a loving mother, comfortable upbringing– shouldn't that be the recipe for contentment? The weight of proving herself content to those eyes was exhausting. The weight of proving herself intelligent was even more so. Any of her misery was shut down with self-deprecating reminders of others' suffering. A large population of doctor-hopefuls would probably trade anything to be in her position, she was sure. What was a couple of prescription drug cocktails in the grand scheme of things? People take those for so, so much worse.

Once she finished her nutritionally-incomplete dinner, personal hygiene, and some light studying, she threw herself into her bed. It was 1 in the morning and the eyes were watching. They were all different colors of brown and green and the most definitive blue she had ever seen.

—

In residency, not as many commented on her youthfulness compared to before. Patients for sure, but attendings? No. She was one duckling in a sea of other ducklings, all waiting for their chance to shine or impress or make some impact on patients' lives. Rachel was tired of shining and impressing. All people wanted was more. If she was gold, those prying eyes wanted diamond. Some ducklings were willing to step on others' heads, but Rachel was not one of them. The expectation of her having stepped on others to get where she was now had to be contradicted, as was in her nature. Maybe when she was little, she was a tad more cutthroat, but now she realized that the more she took, the more people took from her. There was a sort of disappointment sometimes when people found out what age she graduated high school, or when they heard her MCAT score (which she didn't even have to do). Not for her, but for themselves. Sometimes, it was easier to feign innocence.

Rachel couldn't truly see most of the time. Her sight was always masked by this thin film of other thoughts. Only when she began her first dissection (a poor soul who died young at 30 and donated his body to science) did the film lift and her vision was clear. This was where she was meant to be. Not even the stimulants her mother prescribed could make her see like what she saw then. And now, standing in front of a real, still-living patient, did she lift that film again.