She wondered where time went in the hospital. Not that time passed fast, but that it disappeared. The walls were static, the rooms unchanging, stuck in some place with no end nor beginning. On night shift, the unending pulsations of fetal testing.
At times she felt fond gratitude for medicine, other times she wondered--all the residents all seemed so unsatisfied, overworked, yet she saw such beauty, awe, admiration in what they did. Was it enough to just love, and be in awe, to preserve the faith?
Yet those other times--the busyness, the frantic callings--
"Don't get married," the resident said. She thought she'd misheard. "Why not?" Doctors can't get married. Said she loved her husband, but couldn't care for him.
She wondered whether the walls ever got bored, never seeing the light of day. At least without windows, day and night were so easily interchangeable. So that by the time she stepped outside, she'd be in awe, every time. The keys don't stop clacking, it's so strange stuck in this state.