The Resident of Her Shadows

My name is Julian. I’m a surgical resident at a hospital in Chicago. People look at the white coat and the MD after my name and think I’ve got it all figured out. They think I’m part of the elite, the kind of guy who has his pick of anyone. But the truth is, I’ve spent the last three years of my life being a ghost in my own career, all for a woman who only remembers I exist when she’s hurting.

I met Clara during my first year of residency. She was a pharmaceutical rep—bright, ambitious, and beautiful in a way that made the sterile hospital halls feel like they were in color for the first time. We hit it off, or at least I thought we did. I started helping her with her presentations, giving her "insider" data on what surgeons actually wanted to hear so she could beat her sales quotas.

Then she met Marcus. Marcus isn't a doctor. He’s a guy who "works in private equity," which mostly means he travels a lot, spends money he hasn't earned yet, and treats Clara like an option instead of a priority.

For two years, I’ve been the one picking up the pieces. When Marcus forgets their anniversary because he’s in Vegas, I’m the one who stays up after a thirty-six-hour shift to listen to her cry on the phone. When he "accidentally" stands her up for dinner, I’m the one who orders her favorite Italian food to her door and stays on FaceTime with her so she doesn't have to eat alone.

I’ve spent thousands of dollars on her. Not on jewelry or clothes, but on the things that keep her life running while she chases him. I paid her rent for three months when she "lost her focus" and missed her sales targets because she was too depressed over Marcus’s latest disappearance. I told her I had a "bonus" from the hospital. In reality, I was selling my plasma and picking up extra moonlighting shifts in the ER just to make ends meet.

Last month, it got worse. Marcus got into a bad car accident. He was driving a car he couldn't afford, probably after drinking too much. He ended up in my hospital. He wasn't my patient, but I made him my priority.

I spent my breaks in his room, making sure the nurses were giving him the best care. I pulled strings with the Chief of Surgery to get him a private room. I even spent my own money to get him a specialized orthopedic brace that the insurance wouldn't cover, telling Clara the hospital "found one in surplus."

"Julian, you’re an angel," Clara told me in the waiting room, squeezing my hand. "I don't know what I’d do without a friend like you. You’re the only reason I’m keeping it together."

That "friend" word. It’s a diagnosis I can’t seem to cure.

I spent my rare nights off sitting with Marcus so Clara could go home and sleep. I listened to him brag about other women while he lay in the bed I’d helped him get. I watched him complain about the food while I was skipping meals to afford his "surplus" medical gear.

Yesterday, Marcus was discharged. He walked out of the hospital on the legs I helped save, leaning on Clara. She looked at me over her shoulder and waved. "Thanks for everything, Jules! We’re going to spend a week in the Hamptons so he can recover. I’ll text you!"

She didn't text. I saw her post on social media this morning. It was a photo of them on a boat. Marcus looked perfectly fine, holding a drink in his hand. The caption was: "Through the darkest times, love wins. So thankful for the man who fought so hard to get back to me. #MyFighter #Soulmates"

She didn't mention the doctor who stayed awake for forty hours to make sure he survived. She didn't mention the man who emptied his savings so she wouldn't lose her apartment while she sat by Marcus's bed.

I’m back on the floor today. I’ve got a double shift ahead of me. I’m exhausted, I’m broke, and I’m wearing a coat that says I’m a success, even though I feel like a failure. I just got a text from her.

"Hey Jules, Marcus’s physical therapy is really expensive. Do you know any doctors who can do it under the table? Or maybe you could help us out again? You’re the best!"

I looked at the message for a long time. My rent is due tomorrow and I don't have it. My car is almost out of gas. But I’m already typing back, asking her what time they need me to come over. I’m a doctor; I’m trained to save people. I just haven't figured out how to save myself from her.