The thrum of the hospital autoclave usually set the rhythm of my days, a sterile, predictable beat. But today, Lena's voice note cut through the hum like a wild, unexpected melody. "Girl. You have to listen to this guy. Tswana. He dropped an EP called Pink Sweater? It's giving soft-boy genius."

I was half-listening, half-waiting for the sterilizer to finish its cycle, my thoughts echoing in the tiled corridors. Not exactly where I imagined finding my next music obsession, but Lena always had a sixth sense for stuff like this.

"He's got his own show this Friday," she continued, her voice buzzing with excitement. "Like his own show. Live band. Live vocals. Whole vibe. Then we're hitting Dre's birthday after — it's basically a two-parter. Redemption arc, baby. You coming, or are you still married to your lab coat?"

I winced. I had missed Dre's actual birthday last month thanks to back-to-back shifts and an emergency call-in. Everyone said it was fine — but that weird guilt stuck to me like a name tag I couldn't peel off.

So this? This was my chance to show up.