Nadir

Nadir — the lowest or most unsuccessful point in a situation.

Miyah's, POV

In my fourth year of medical school, life took an unexpected turn. After a painful breakup with the love of my life, I felt shattered, like a fragile vase that had fallen from a great height and scattered into a thousand pieces. My heart was heavy, and the pain seemed endless. Every memory of us together haunted me, casting a shadow over my days. But life, with its unrelenting pace, did not allow me the luxury to grieve indefinitely. Clinical training had just begun, and I had to hold myself together, even if it was just by a thread.

A few weeks into the semester, I met my clinical supervisor, Dr. Steven Avery. Dr. Avery had a tall, imposing figure with an air of authority that commanded respect. His chiseled jawline was accentuated by a hint of stubble, adding a rugged allure to his appearance. Deep-set eyes, the color of rich mahogany, held a penetrating gaze that seemed to see right through you. Despite the severity of his demeanor, there was an undeniable magnetism around him, a raw charisma that drew people in like moths to a flame. A seasoned professional with a reputation for excellence. His manner was composed and reassuring, his wisdom evident in every word he spoke. To my classmates, he was a beacon of guidance and support. But to me, he was a different person altogether.

In a group of ten eager students, I was the exception. While he greeted others with encouraging smiles and gentle words, his demeanor towards me was markedly different. His eyes, normally warm and understanding, turned cold and scrutinizing whenever they landed on me. His voice, kind to my peers, took on a harsh edge in my presence. The disparity was stark and painfully obvious. It wasn't long before my fellow group members began to notice and occasionally expressed their sympathy for my plight.

Stan, my closest friend since our first year, became my confidant. Stan was a pillar of support, always ready with a comforting word or a listening ear. His presence was a balm to my wounded spirit. We would sit together in the cafeteria, and I would pour out my frustrations and fears. Stan's unwavering support and understanding helped me navigate the stormy waters of our clinical training.

On this day, after an especially grueling week, I found myself at the brink of my endurance. The workload had been relentless, and I was already feeling overwhelmed. As I approached Dr. Avery to submit my latest assignment, my heart pounded in my chest. I handed him my work, hoping for a rare moment of approval. Instead, he erupted.

"Is this what you call an assignment?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the sterile corridors. The patient's eyes widened in surprise and discomfort at the scene unfolding before them. I stood there, paralyzed, as the weight of his words bore down on me. My face flushed with embarrassment, and my eyes stung with unshed tears.

"I... I worked so hard on it, sir" I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Even a three year old child won't produce this nonsense!" Dr. Avery's harsh tone cut through me like a knife. The humiliation was unbearable. I turned on my heel and fled, my vision blurred by the tears I could no longer hold back.

Back at my hostel, the floodgates opened. I sobbed uncontrollably, my cries muffled by the pillow I clutched desperately. The loneliness and pain were overwhelming. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls a silent witness to my anguish. I felt trapped in a cycle of despair, each day a struggle to find the strength to face another.

As I lay there, exhausted from the tears and the weight of my experiences, I couldn't help but wonder why Dr. Avery singled me out. Was it something I had done? Or was it something about me that incited his ire? These questions haunted me, adding to the burden I carried.

I had given my all to this journey, sacrificed so much, only to be torn down by the very person who was supposed to guide me.