Selena stood beside the emergency room bed, her eyes scanning the ultrasound screen. The young construction worker before her winced in pain, clutching his abdomen. Her focused hands moved the ultrasound probe gently across his lower right quadrant. The grayscale image revealed a dilated, incompressible appendix.

"It's appendicitis," Selena said firmly, her voice calm but decisive.

The patient's face fell. "What does that mean, doctor?"

"It means your appendix is inflamed and needs to be surgically removed," Selena explained. "However, since you don't have medical insurance, the cost of surgery could be significant. For now, I'll prescribe antibiotics to manage the infection, but you must seek surgical care as soon as possible."

The man nodded solemnly. After discussing the risks, Selena handed him the Leave Against Medical Advice (LAMA) form. "We need your signature here," she said. He hesitated before signing, the weight of his financial struggles heavy in the air.

Two medical students shadowing Selena exchanged glances as the patient left.

"It's so sad," one of them murmured. "We have the skills and tools to help, but finances always tie our hands."

Selena sighed, turning to them. "It’s heartbreaking, yes. But this is the reality we face every day. Always remember that empathy and guidance are just as important as treatment. If we can't do one, we do the other."

After finishing the patient's report, Selena retreated to the doctor’s station in the minor emergency area. The clatter of keyboards and murmured conversations surrounded her as she leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Needing a break, she stepped outside to the staff lounge and pulled out her phone. Dialing her sister in the UK, she waited, listening to the soft hum of the hospital around her.

"Selena!" her sister Amelia answered cheerfully. "How’s my favorite emergency medicine doctor?"

Selena chuckled. "Tired, as always. What about you? How's your research coming along?"

"It's so exciting!" Amelia gushed. "I just submitted a study on genetic markers for rare blood disorders. Did you see the new PubMed publication? They confirmed some of the findings we discussed last month!"

Selena smiled, listening to Amelia's enthusiasm. Her sister had always been the academic one. After earning her bachelor’s in biomedical science in Dubai, Amelia had landed a job in the UK two years ago. Now, she was pursuing a PhD in genetics at Harvard, balancing work and studies with a passion that Selena admired.

"You're making waves in genetics," Selena said warmly. "I'm proud of you, Amelia."

"And I'm proud of you too," Sarah replied. "Handling emergencies day and night isn't easy. But Selena, you should think about research someday. You'd be brilliant at it."

Selena laughed. "One life crisis at a time, Amelia."

---

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm hues on the sleek, minimalist furniture. She sat at her marble dining table, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a flaky croissant on a delicate plate before her. Her laptop screen displayed a cluttered inbox.

Her eyes lit up as she saw the HR department’s email: Vacancy for Secretary at Libaas Posted. A small smile tugged at her lips as she sipped her coffee.

Nuha opened her planner, meticulously organizing her day. As CEO, her schedule was packed with meetings, reviews, and creative discussions.

9:00 AM: Designer review meeting on the new bridal collection.

11:00 AM: Conference call with investors.

2:00 PM: Marketing team progress check.

4:00 PM: Product quality assessment in the factory.

Her pen glided across the page, annotating priorities and potential challenges. She thrived on structure and precision, a habit born from years of running her company with unwavering determination.

---

Meanwhile, Nasr sat in the quiet corner of a public library. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead filled the silence as he squinted at his laptop screen. His eyes darted between the card Selena had given him and a LinkedIn job posting for a secretary position at Libaas.

"This... can't be a coincidence," he muttered, blinking in disbelief.

The sleek black card in his hand bore the same company name. He stared at it for a long moment, then glanced back at the screen.

His hand hovered over the mouse before clicking "Apply." Pulling out his freshly prepared resume, he uploaded it to the application portal, double-checking every detail. When he hit "Submit," a smile slowly spread across his face.

For the first time in what felt like years, he felt a glimmer of hope.

---

Later that evening, Nasr prepared for his shift at the restaurant. He stood in the cramped bathroom, the flickering light casting uneven shadows on the cracked mirror. His smile lingered as he tied the strings of his black disposable apron. For the first time in months, he allowed himself a moment of genuine happiness.

With his name tag clipped on and gloves snapped into place, he stepped into the bustling kitchen, ready for another night of work. But this time, his steps felt lighter, and his heart carried a quiet determination.

For the first time, the future didn't feel so bleak.

---

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the pediatric ward in Aarhus, Denmark, where Aariz began his routine. The sound of nurses shuffling through paperwork and the soft beeping of monitors created a familiar symphony as the night shift handed over to the day team.

Aariz listened attentively during the handover meeting, scribbling notes in his pocket-sized notebook. Cases of respiratory infections, gastroenteritis, and routine follow-ups filled the list. His first patient of the day was a one-year-old boy diagnosed with bronchiolitis.

Donning his gloves and mask, Aariz adjusted his stethoscope around his neck and approached the room. He knocked softly before stepping inside, greeted by the sight of the child sleeping soundly in his mother’s arms. The faint wheeze of the boy’s breathing was audible even without a stethoscope.

“Good morning,” Aariz said with a kind smile, his voice gentle so as not to disturb the child. “I just have a few questions before we start the round.”

The mother nodded, adjusting the blanket around her child. Aariz retrieved a pen and small notebook from his pocket, glancing briefly at the collection of colorful stickers peeking out.

“How is he this morning? Did he have any spikes of fever during the night?”

“No fever, but he was a little restless around midnight,” the mother replied softly.

“Did you give him any medication?” Aariz continued, jotting her response in neat shorthand.

“Just the nebulizer the nurse brought in.”

Aariz nodded. “How many feeds has he had since last night? Has his appetite reduced?”

“He took two feeds but didn’t finish them completely,” she admitted, worry etched on her face.

“And his stool? Is he wetting his diapers regularly?”

“Yes, the diapers are wet, and his stool was normal this morning.”

“Good to hear,” Aariz said, offering a reassuring smile. “We’ll keep monitoring him closely.” He placed his stethoscope gently on the child’s chest, listening to the rhythmic wheezing and the faint crackles of congestion. His brow furrowed slightly as he made a mental note to discuss increasing the frequency of nebulization during the consultant’s round.

He thanked the mother and quietly stepped out, moving on to his next patient. With each room, Aariz followed the same rhythm—questions, observations, and notes—building a comprehensive picture of the ward’s status before the consultant arrived for rounds.

---

Aariz’s days and nights blended into a relentless cycle of shifts, studying, and working on a case report he hoped to publish. Pediatric residency was a grueling journey, but Aariz knew it was his calling. Yet, somewhere along the way, he had lost something more profound than just time.

Returning home after a late shift, Aariz tossed his keys onto the small table by the door and sank into the worn-out sofa. His white coat lay crumpled over the armrest, the day’s exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. The room was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator.

On the side table beside the sofa sat a framed photo of his nikkah with Selena. Dust had settled over the glass, obscuring the joy frozen in that moment. Aariz glanced at it fleetingly, then looked away, unable to face the image of a love he felt slipping through his fingers.

He hated himself for it.

Selena deserved so much more, yet he felt paralyzed by his own life, stuck in a loop of responsibilities that left no room for her. They spoke occasionally—brief calls that felt more like obligations than connections. He missed her, missed them, but the words to fix it all remained lodged in his throat.

As he leaned back on the sofa, fatigue claimed him. The faint tick of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room as Aariz drifted into a restless sleep, the picture of his wife a silent witness to his struggle.