Page 18 of Stolen Moments

“I’m taking graduate-level courses. Medical schools like seeing advanced coursework.” I look back down at my notebook, but he asks another question.

“Do you ever take a class just because it interests you?”

“All my classes interest me.” I’m not lying, I love all of them.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I set down my flashcards. “What do you want me to say? That I wish I was taking art history instead of pharmacology? That I sometimes fantasize about majoring in literature or philosophy or something completely impractical?”

“Do you?”

“It doesn’t matter. This is the path. This is what’s expected.”

“Fuck expectations.” He turns his chair to face me. “What do you want, Priya? Not what your parents want. Not what looks good on applications. What do you actually want?”

No one’s ever asked me that. Not like this. Not like my answer actually matters.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”

“Then think about it now.” I feel his hands on my thighs, rubbing them to calm me down. He must feel I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable with this.

“Jackson…”

“Humor me.” He cuts me off before I can tell him I don’t want this conversation.

I close my eyes, trying to imagine a life that’s not pre-med, not hospital rotations, not the endless pressure to be perfect.

“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “I think about traveling. Taking a year off before medical school. Seeing the world before I’m trapped in residency for the next decade. I think about photography, I used to love it in high school, but I had to give it up because it wasn’t ‘practical.’ I think about having time to read books that aren’t textbooks. About sleeping past five in the morning, about having friends who don’t only talk about med school applications.”

When I open my eyes, Jackson is watching me with an intensity that makes my heart race.

“You should do those things,” he says.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have responsibilities. Expectations. A plan.”

“Plans can change.”

“Not mine.”

He cups my face, and leans in closer. “Priya. You’re allowed to want things. To change your mind. To choose yourself.”

“I am choosing myself. Medicine is what I want.”

“Is it? Or is it just what you’ve been told to want for so long that you’ve convinced yourself it’s true?” The question hits too close to something I’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’s something I’ve locked away, so I never have to think about it.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay.” He kisses my forehead gently. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good. Because we should be studying.” I go to pick up my flashcards again.

“Should be. But are we going to?”

I look at him smiling at me. “No,” I say. “We’re not going to study.”