the first week at work

The changes began affecting her at work immediately.

Monday Morning:

Valeria woke sluggishly, her alarm buzzing insistently. As she reached for the white coat, her chest tightened. Dr. Valeria Rivera… the name sounded foreign in her mind, heavy with expectation. She lingered over it, fingers brushing the embroidered name, and felt a faint flush of relief at the thought of shedding the title.

In the clinic, she greeted her first patient with a polite smile, but it felt rehearsed. Her voice wavered slightly as she explained the procedure, though she knew it. Her notes felt strange, almost like a costume she was wearing. When signing the chart, she hesitated, then wrote:

“Valerie Rivera”

Her hand trembled faintly as she looked down at the letters. Each stroke felt right. Closer. Smaller. Content. She straightened the pens in the drawer, aligned the paper stacks perfectly, and found herself inexplicably gratified.

By lunchtime, she realized she had spent more energy aligning supplies than reviewing patient charts. She glanced at the medicine cabinet and smoothed the bottles, a wave of satisfaction passing through her chest.

Tuesday:

Her confidence faltered further. Simple calculations — dosages she had once done without thinking — now required double-checking, sometimes with a textbook beside her. Colleagues noticed her hesitation. A nurse asked a question, and she stammered before responding:

“Let me… check the chart…”

All the while, her hands returned instinctively to order: tidying forms, adjusting chairs, rearranging equipment. The act of carefully organizing felt more rewarding than giving instructions or making decisions.

When signing patient notes, she again wrote:

“Valerie Rivera”

A strange warmth settled in her chest, a faint pride in the act itself rather than its meaning. Each repetition reinforced the name, each stroke pulling her further from Valeria and closer to the obedient, orderly persona Chase had planted.

Wednesday:

By midweek, the dread of work settled in fully. She awoke with a pit in her stomach at the thought of meetings and diagnoses. Her hand shook as she prepared patient charts; even familiar procedures required deliberate, conscious effort.

Yet there was comfort in small tasks. She found herself aligning the chairs in the waiting room with almost obsessive care, wiping the counters repeatedly, straightening every pen and form. Each act brought a quiet, unspoken pleasure.

Answering the phone, she caught herself introducing:

“Good morning… Valerie Rivera.”

Her throat constricted with unease at first, but the sound felt softer than Valeria ever had. A hint of relief accompanied it, as though part of her was glad to step aside from the strain of being a doctor.

Thursday:

The tension between identities became apparent. A patient asked a detailed question, and for a moment, Valeria rose, sharp and precise. She felt a spark of pride, the satisfaction of knowledge, but it was fleeting. Anxiety followed immediately — the old confidence felt heavy, almost wrong.

Instead, she returned to comfort: tidying the counter, aligning instruments, checking the forms. Even the smallest act of order felt intimate, meaningful, stabilizing. The name “Valerie” appeared naturally on charts and forms now, no longer forcing her to pause. Each signature seemed to anchor her closer to her new role.

Friday:

By the end of the week, the professional façade was shaky. She still performed her duties — prescriptions, patient counseling — but each task required deliberate effort, each decision weighed. Meanwhile, her instinctive behaviors gravitated almost entirely toward micro-tasks: sorting, folding, aligning, wiping, arranging.

Phone calls became a strange ritual. Introducing herself as Valerie felt automatic, her voice soft and deferential. A patient complimented her clarity of explanation, and she smiled faintly, but the real satisfaction came from making sure the pens were aligned afterward.

At the close of the day, alone in her office, she straightened the paperwork on her desk, folded a stray corner of a chart, and sighed with relief — not from finishing work, but from the small, meticulous tasks she had completed. The name Valerie whispered through her mind again, comforting and real:

Each note, each action, each signature… I am Valerie. I am… content.