Page 34 of Clinically Awkward

“You, sir, are a nacho anarchist,” Vivian replied, waving a tortilla chip like a gavel.

“Order matters. Cheese is the glue of society.”

Somewhere between the salsa jokes and existential debates, we built a friendship as sturdy as the perfect nacho tower—messy, layered, and surprisingly resilient.

Vivian didn’t just have opinions; she had conviction.

Most people heard “I disagree” and retreated. Vivian heard it and leaned in, like a contender in a championship debate, eager for the next round. It was exhilarating—and, if I were being honest, exhilarating in the way that roller coasters were exhilarating: thrilling, with a hint of danger if you let yourself get too close to the edge.

And, somewhere between baseball games, hiking trails, movie marathons, and spreadsheet-fueled taco rankings, I started to realize: I was counting down the hours, not to the end of my shift, but to seeing her again. That feeling was both wonderful and utterly destabilizing.

It was also deeply, deeply dangerous. Because the more I invested in our quirks and rituals, the more the stakes rose. The highlight of my week wasn’t just a movie or a taco—it was whatever we were doing together, even if it involved debating whether pizza qualified as a vegetable in Congress.

But as soon as the workday loomed, reality snapped back, and the carefree banter faded, replaced by sterile professionalism. The transition was always jarring. A whiplash from nacho jokes to medical charts, from being Quinton to “Dr. Wesley.”

The worst part? The abrupt shift. At work, we were colleagues, professionals, careful to keep the banter subdued and the boundaries clear. She called me Dr. Wesley. I called her Nurse Darcy. We discussed patient care, treatment plans, and whether Fitz’s latest hangover was “medically concerning” or “karmic justice.” But beneath the clinical conversations, I was counting down the minutes until I could be myself again. Until I could return to the world where nachos, opinions, and friendship ruled.

And I hated it. I hated the formality, the distance, the performance. I hated waiting until five o’clock to drop the “MD” and pick up the mantle of taco critic and nacho architect. Because what Vivian had given me—really given me—was permission to be the unpolished, opinionated, slightly absurd version of myself. The guy who told the truth about sundresses, who debated pizza toppings, who insisted that capsule wardrobes beat chaos every time.

No performance, no pretense—just me and my three identical gray T-shirts. And for reasons I still didn’t fully understand, she didn’t merely tolerate that version.

She liked him. Maybe even more than the “doctor” me.

And that was the most thrilling—and terrifying—part. Because what if, when the chips were down (extra cheese, obviously), I couldn’t keep being that guy? What if the world demanded the doctor and left no room for the friend, the critic, the guy who cared enough to say, “Try the green one”? Sometimes, the scariest thing was realizing that when someone saw you—really saw you—and liked what they found, flaws, opinions, and all. For me, that was both the sweetest victory and the wildest risk.

And beneath all the banter, the rituals, the spreadsheets, and the nacho debates, that knowledge lingered—equal parts comfort and terror, held together by a friendship that felt efficient, absurd, and absolutely necessary.

It was 4:47 PM on a Tuesday, and I was watching the clock like a patient waiting for test results.

Thirteen minutes until I could leave.

Thirteen minutes until I could text Vivian and ask if she wanted to grab dinner.

Thirteen minutes until I could stop being Dr. Wesley and go back to being the version of myself that felt real.

My phone buzzed.

Vivian: Thai food tonight? I’m craving drunken noodles.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Me: I’m craving pad see ew. We can share.

Vivian: You always say we can share, and then you eat all of yours and half of mine.

Me: That’s called efficient resource allocation.

Vivian: That’s called theft.

Me: I’m a doctor. I need fuel.

Vivian: You’re a black hole in human form.

Me: Astrophysically inaccurate, but I’ll allow it.

I put my phone down and looked at the clock.

Twelve minutes.