I’d grab whatever was quick: crackers, cheap ramen, sometimes just coffee. The dark circles under my eyes became permanent. My college friends stopped calling because I never had time to see them anyway.
But Brandon was doing well. Really well. He was at the top of his class, impressing his professors, getting excellent marks in his clinical rotations.
And he still loved me. Or at least I thought he did. He still said thank you when I handed him money for his textbooks. He still held me at night when we both finally made it to bed.
The cracks started showing in his third year. Brandon got accepted into a prestigious residency program, and suddenly he was around different people. Wealthy people.
His classmates came from families with money, families who could pay for medical school without blinking. Their wives and girlfriends wore nice clothes, got their hair done at salons, and talked about art galleries and wine tastings.
One night, Brandon came home from a study group and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in weeks. I was in my Save Mart uniform, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, eating cereal for dinner because I was too exhausted to cook.