I’ve been a nurse for six years now. Long shifts, aching feet, barely enough time to

eat—but I love it. It’s the one place where I feel like I truly matter. Nobody cares what I look like, just that I do my job well.

But today? Today threw me back to a time I’d rather forget.

I walked into the ER room with my chart, barely glancing at the name. “Alright, let’s see what we got—” Then I looked up.

Robby Langston.

He was sitting on the bed, wincing as he held his wrist, but when he saw me, his eyes went wide.

For a second, I thought maybe he didn’t recognize me. But then he did a quick, awkward glance at my face—at my nose—and I knew.

Middle school, high school… he made my life hell. “Big Becca,” “Toucan Sam,” all the creative

ways to make a girl hate her own reflection. I spent years wishing I could shrink, disappear,

be anyone else. But here I was, standing in scrubs, holding his chart, and he was the one needing me.

“Becca?” His voice was hesitant, almost nervous. “Wow, uh… it’s been a while.”

I kept my face neutral. “What happened to your wrist?”

“Basketball injury,” he muttered. “Just a sprain, I think.”

I nodded, checking his vitals, doing my job like I would with anyone else. But inside,

I was battling old ghosts. I had imagined a moment like this before—facing my past, getting some kind of closure. Maybe even some kind of justice.

Then, as I wrapped his wrist, he let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Guess karma’s funny, huh? You taking care of me after all that.”

I met his eyes. For once, he wasn’t the cocky guy from school. Just another patient, just another human.

And then he said something that made my hands pause.

“Listen…” Robby swallowed hard, shifting on the bed. “I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I did back then.”

I blinked, taken aback. An apology? From the guy who made me dread going to class, who gave me nicknames I still remember in my worst moments? I forced myself to keep my professional composure, setting aside the gauze and grabbing a wrist brace from the supply cart.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I know I was a jerk, and I can’t fix it. But I’ve thought about it a lot. Especially when I found out you became a nurse.”

He gave a weak chuckle. “I figured if anyone deserved to do something meaningful, it was you.”

I focused on Velcro straps and making sure the brace fit correctly. Part of me wanted to tell him exactly how much he hurt me—how I spent weekends hiding in my room, how I tried every ridiculous remedy to ‘shrink’ my nose, how I once begged my mom for surgery I didn’t need. But another part of me, the nurse part of me, the older, maybe wiser part of me, reminded me that I was here to help. Even if it was him.