Twenty-two years old
Kath
My lungs are on fire, but the finish line is in sight.
I push for one last burst of speed, ignoring the burn in my legs.
As soon as I cross the line and pause my watch, the endorphins hit.
It helps that the sun’s out and the park looks stunning this morning, green grass, vibrant flowers, fewer puddles than usual for England.
I bend over, hands on my knees, catching my breath.
“Twenty-two forty,” the timekeeper calls. I flash him a thumbs-up. Not my best time, but not my worst, either.
I move out of the way and grab some snacks out of my bag.
Sipping water, I scan the path for Claire.
She appears a few minutes later, puffing, red-faced and drenched in sweat.
Frankly, I’m still impressed that I convinced her to do Parkrun with me.
She hates cardio almost as much as she hates early mornings.
Her usually perfect blonde hair is plastered to her forehead and she glares at me as she crosses the finish line.
“Never again,” she wheezes as we grab our stuff. “I can’t believe I thought this would be fun.”
“It’s just a 5K.” I try not to laugh at her state of distress. “It’s meant to be a fun run. Community vibes. I usually do the Exeter one—loads of my friends are into it, and there are runs all over the world. You can do them in Canada and New Zealand and all sorts of other places.”
She just shakes her head, apparently out of words. I offer her a banana and we find a bench to sit on.
“I can’t believe you got me to do that,” she says. “I wanted to see you and catch up. Not die on the altar of cardio. I like the gym. The gym. This outdoor life is too much. I can’t believe you’re doing a marathon.”
She does a full-body shudder and I grin.
“I promise it’s actually fun,” I tell her. “I never thought I’d like running, but now I love it. And I only signed up for the marathon because Tom convinced me to. We’re doing a training run tomorrow actually; he’s staying with my parents over half-term.”
Claire narrows her eyes. “You and Tom can enjoy your little death cult. I’ll be at home, lifting weights like a sane person.”
I laugh. “You’re overdramatic. I promise if you trained, you might enjoy it. Anyway, catch me up. How’s work?”
Claire’s just started in marketing and public relations.
I still don’t totally understand what her job involves, but from what I can gather, it’s very her—all energy, charm and creativity.
I'm glad there's some room to create in her job.
She wanted to do an art degree, but her mum talked her out of it, the way her mum always does.
She did business instead, but at least her job seems to suit her.
We chat about her job, a few of her clients, and her new flatmate, an aspiring DJ who, according to Claire, only owns two playlists: “lo-fi chill” and “absolute chaos”. I’d probably last a week in that house. Too much noise.
Sometimes I find it hard to believe we left school years ago, and that I have friends with actual careers now.
Salaries. Flats. House plants. Meanwhile, I’m still a student, calling my dad when the washing machine makes a weird noise or when the boiler breaks.
I don’t feel like a real adult—more like a very convincing impersonator.
Though part of my brain chooses that moment to helpfully remind me that I’m not the only one who’s still a student. I’m pretty sure Sam's still studying, at least I assume so. I’m not sure if something’s changed in the last year given we haven’t spoken.
I stop that train of thought, immediately annoyed with myself. I need to stop thinking about him.
“Other than running, anything new?” Claire stretches her legs out in front of her and I shake myself back into the present.
“I signed up for yoga,” I say. “That’s been fun. Oh, and I did some art classes. But honestly, I was so bad.”
“You were horrific at art at school,” she laughs. “Do you remember that clay turtle you made in Year 9? The one that looked like something out of a horror movie?”
“OK, rude. That was abstract.”
“All right, Kandinsky.”
“I’m just saying, some critics appreciated the raw emotional depth of Turtle With No Face.”
She’s practically wheezing now. “Didn’t Mr Thompson ask if it was supposed to be a potato?”
“That’s the one. The potato-turtle hybrid. A true visionary piece. Ahead of its time.”
We both dissolve into laughter, and for a moment it feels like we’re sixteen again, sitting on the grass behind the science block during break.
Except we’re not sixteen, because Josh and Ben aren’t kicking a football around behind us, and Sam isn’t sitting next to me chiming in with a dry comment that he knows will make me smile.
***
I’m still thinking about the conversation we had about hobbies when I walk home.
I hadn’t realised just how much of my life had revolved around Sam—his swimming, his goals, his future—until it all disappeared.
Without meaning to, I’d built the foundations of my world around someone else.
I thought I’d been pursuing my own dream; dreams of medical school, being the best doctor I could be.
And I had. But I hadn’t let anything else in, because his swimming had taken up the rest of that space.
It’s a strange thing to reckon with, that you can slowly sideline yourself in your own story and not even notice it. But I’m learning… slowly. Figuring out how to exist on my own and not be the person who just gives everything without getting anything back.
It’s odd. I’d always thought of myself as such an independent person, and in many ways I was.
But I always had Sam at the end of the phone, and I’d never realised how much I’d relied on the knowledge that I could always call him.
Now I know I don’t need that. But it doesn’t stop it from occasionally hurting when I have a bad day and realise I can’t—I won’t—call him.
“Hey,” Tom shouts when I let myself in. He’s lounging on the sofa, half-watching a nerdy history documentary, his favourite thing, and half-scrolling through his phone. “How was Claire? Still breathing?”
“Only just,” I say, kicking off my trainers. “I think it’ll take her a full month to forgive me for making her run. But luckily, I’ll be back in Exeter before she’s had time to organise her revenge.”
“I don’t know if you’re safe; she’s pretty resourceful.” He stretches out like a cat. “Still good for that morning run tomorrow?”
“Yep. I just need to call Theo first, then I can help you make lunch if you want.”
“How is Theo from Accounts?”
I give him a look. “He’s not from Accounts. He’s a medical student.”
Tom waves a hand like that’s a minor detail. “It’s more of a personality vibe.”
I know he thinks Theo’s boring. But he’s only met my new boyfriend twice, and he made him incredibly nervous both times.
We’ve been together for six months. He’s one of the graduate medical students, so he only joined our cohort two years ago, and we met when we were both sent to Plymouth Hospital.
After six weeks of a cardiology placement we were firm friends, mainly bonded over how much we both kept on failing at reading ECGs (too many squiggly lines on a page).
When he asked me for a drink the week we got back to Exeter, there wasn’t the usual stuttered small talk of a first date.
No games or mining for information about previous relationships.
Just an evening of laughing that led to a coffee date, that led to a dinner, and then another dinner, and somehow here we are.
Things are easy. Things are safe. The feelings aren’t complicated.
“He’s not boring,” I tell Tom. “He literally pulled a tick out of someone’s back on Dartmoor last week.”
“Sounds like weird medic foreplay,” he mutters.
“He has a great social life, actually.”
Tom gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, are you actually defending him? Is this serious? Are we in the Theo era now?”
I toss a cushion at his head. “Shut up and go put the kettle on.”
“Yes, doctor.”