“Morning,” the man says, sounding too cheerful for this hour.
“Good morning,” I answer with a polite smile. I keep my eyes on Mia while the other dog passes. “Good girl, Mia. You’re such a good girl.”
She relaxes under my touch and looks up at me. People should be more like dogs. Dogs don’t lie. Dogs don’t promise you forever and then disappear. Dogs love you without breaking your heart into pieces so small you’re still finding them years later.
I tug gently on her leash, signaling our turnaround. We’ve reached the bench overlooking the water—our halfway point. I used to sit here five years ago, daydreaming about a future with someone who said “always” like he meant it.
As we head back, the harbor wakes up around us. Fishing boats motor out, engines rumbling across the water. People line up at The Daily Grind for their morning coffee. The lighthouse keeper’s truck sits in its usual spot—he’s already finished his dawn rounds, right on schedule like he is every single day.
I’ve counted the romance novels I’ve read this year—thirty-eight so far. In every single one, the main character’s careful life gets turned upside down when she meets the right man. Her plans fall apart, and we’re supposed to think that’s romantic. That chaos equals love. But real life doesn’t work that way. When things break, they stay broken. I learned that lesson the hard way.
The path curves away from the ocean, leading us back toward the familiar streets. My work clothes are waiting upstairs, folded neatly on my chair. I can picture exactly how my day will unfold down to every single moment.
I check my watch one more time as we reach our building. Mia looks up at me with those soulful brown eyes, loving me even though I need everything to be perfect. I kneel down to scratch behind her soft ears, soaking in this simple moment of uncomplicated affection.
“Good walk, Mia,” I say as we climb the stairs to our apartment. “Same time tomorrow, okay?”
I turn the corner and see the vet clinic where I work. It’s in an old house painted soft green with white trim. The sign in the window says, “Pets Welcome, People Tolerated,” which always makes me smile despite myself. Morning sun filters throughthe stained glass by the door, painting rainbow patterns on the sidewalk. I check my watch—7:28. Two minutes early, perfect. My scrubs are clean and pressed. My hair is pulled back tight. I know exactly what I’ll do today, hour by hour, task by task. This place feels like mine. I know who I am here.
I unlock the door and breathe in that familiar mix of antiseptic and pet shampoo that clings to everything. I flip on the lights one by one. The waiting room comes to life—comfortable chairs arranged just so, posters about pet health covering the walls in neat rows. The old wooden floor creaks under my feet as I walk toward the back, the sound as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Dr. Martinez surprises me when I pass her office. “Morning, Sophie.” She’s early today, which throws me off for half a second. Her dark hair is twisted into a perfect bun, and she looks far too put-together for this hour. She holds out a paper cup with my name scrawled across it in black marker. “Got you this on my way in.”
My stomach does a little flip when I take it from her hands. I’m not good with unexpected kindness. Never have been. “Thanks,” I manage, and take a sip. It’s perfect—vanilla latte with almond milk, exactly how I like it. Dr. Martinez has known my coffee order for three years now. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal. Still, warmth spreads through my chest, and it has nothing to do with the hot drink.
“The Peters’ cat is coming at eight-thirty for blood work,” she says, already scrolling through her tablet. “And Mrs. Donovan called about Duchess. The wiener dog got into something she shouldn’t have. I told her to bring her straight in.”
I nod, my brain already reorganizing the morning’s schedule around the emergency. “I’ll get everything ready.”
Dr. Martinez studies me over the rim of her reading glasses. “Are you okay, mija? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. It’s what I always say, my default response to any question about how I’m doing. I’m fine. I’m always fine. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
She gives me that look—the one that says she doesn’t quite believe me but won’t push. That’s what I appreciate about Dr. Martinez. She notices things, cares about her staff, but she doesn’t try to excavate my past like Sara does. Sara thinks if she digs deep enough, asks the right questions, she can fix whatever’s broken inside me. She doesn’t understand that some things stay broken.
“I’ll go check on the overnight patients,” I tell her, already backing away from the conversation.
I head to the treatment room first. I wipe down the stainless steel counters until they gleam, check that all the instruments are sterilized and properly arranged, restock supplies that don’t really need restocking yet. It’s the same routine every morning, and something about the repetition settles the anxious flutter in my body. Each drawer holds exactly what it should—gauze pads sorted by size, needles arranged by gauge, bandages lined up. I test the oxygen tank, make sure the anesthesia machine is working properly. The metal exam tables shine under the fluorescent lights, spotless and waiting for the day ahead.
I don’t have one of those cute jobs like the heroines in the romance novels I devour—no charming bakery with vintage aprons, no flower shop with bundles of flowers. But I love it here, where everything has its place and follows patterns. Clean instruments. Organized supplies. When the rest of my life feels like it’s spinning out of control, I can count on this.
The kennels are in what used to be a sunroom at the back of the house. We’ve added modern equipment but kept those massive windows that flood the space with natural light. The smell hits me the moment I open the door—that unmistakableblend of fur and medicine that lingers no matter how many times we clean.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say softly as I step inside. Three pairs of eyes turn toward me with varying degrees of interest.
Jasper the tabby cat is recovering from a urinary blockage. He’s curled into a tight ball in the corner of his cage, radiating pure feline contempt for his current situation. “I know, buddy,” I murmur, carefully opening his cage to check the IV catheter in his front leg. “You hate it here. You hate me. You hate everything. But you’ll go home soon, I promise.”
Jasper tolerates my examination with the stoic patience of the deeply offended. That’s basically a cat’s version of gratitude. When I scratch behind his ears, I feel the faintest rumble of a purr beneath my fingertips.
Next is Max, the elderly golden retriever with failing kidneys who needed IV fluids overnight. His tail thumps weakly against the kennel floor when I approach, and my heart squeezes. Max has loved me through every needle stick, every uncomfortable procedure, every moment of pain I’ve had to cause while helping him.
“Hi there, sweet boy,” I say, crouching to his level. His brown eyes are cloudy with age but still impossibly gentle. I check his catheter, run my hands over his body to feel for any swelling or pain. “You’re being so brave. Such a good dog.”
Max licks my hand, his tongue warm and sandpaper-rough against my skin. The tightness in my chest eases, a fraction. This is why I love my job—these quiet moments with creatures who need me to be competent and kind, who don’t ask me to explain myself or share my feelings or let them past the walls I’ve built.
The last overnight patient is Oreo, a small gray and white rabbit recovering from gastrointestinal stasis. I approach his cage slowly, keeping my movements calm and measured so I don’t startle him.
“Hey there, little one,” I whisper. His nose twitches rapidly, dark eyes tracking my every move. I check that he’s eaten some of his hay, that his water bottle is working. “Good. You’re eating. That’s exactly what we want to see.”
