The Final Stretch and the Quiet Between

 I know it’s been a while—way too long—and for that, I owe you an apology. Things have been chaotic lately. Between finishing up my combined Bachelor’s and MD program and the whirlwind that followed the graveyard investigation, time just slipped through my fingers. The truth is, I’ve been buried in books, lectures, clinicals, and all the craziness that comes with the final stretch of medical school. It feels like the finish line is right there, but it’s this endless sea of tests and sleepless nights standing between me and the end.

I wanted to write sooner, but I guess it’s hard to put your thoughts into words when you’re barely keeping up with your own reality.

Since the investigation, everything has been… hectic, to say the least. The Cryptic Club—Brooke, Kieran, Nox, Payton, and I—has been put on hold for now. We all went into this with so much excitement, but life has a way of hitting you when you least expect it. Brooke’s been working hard on her career, landing a fantastic internship at Google, and I couldn’t be more proud of her. She’s killing it, and I know she’s going to do amazing things. She’s always been so driven, and seeing her succeed is just a reminder of why I’m so lucky to have her by my side.

As for the rest of the group, everyone’s lives have gotten busier, and it’s hard to stay connected when you’re juggling a thousand things. Kieran’s traveling for research, Nox has been working OT at the club and Payton been MIA for awhile now. I do hope she's okay. It’s a little bittersweet that the club’s been on pause. We had so much planned, but for now, I think we all need to focus on the present.

With residency looming on the horizon, I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to contribute to the blog or keep up with anything else. I’ve been pushing for this moment my whole life, but I’m also realizing how little space there’ll be in my schedule for anything beyond the hospital and my studies. But I promise you—I’ll do my best to keep you updated when I can. This blog has always been my way to connect with all of you, and even if it’s less frequent, I’ll make it work.

The finish line is close, and it’s both exciting and terrifying. I can’t wait to start this next chapter, but I’m also trying to savor these final moments of my journey through school. It’s all been a blur, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

Thanks for sticking around, and for being patient. I’m grateful for every one of you who’s been following this journey with me. I’ll be back soon enough.

Between Pages

 The clock ticks soft in borrowed halls,

Where dreams once whispered through these walls.
Notes and needles, bones and breath—
A thousand steps from life to death.

I used to write beneath the moon,
With hands ink-stained and thoughts in bloom.
But silence crept into my days,
And time began to slip away.

Friends I loved now scatter wide,
Chasing stars and truths we tried.
The club we made with hearts so bold,
Now paused beneath the dust and fold.

Brooke is light in motion still,
With hands that bend the world to will.
She speaks in codes and silver skies—
Google found its flame in her eyes.

And I? I chase a different flame,
White coats, cold rooms, the weight of names.
A healer's path, a sacred ache,
To hold what's breaking, mend what's fake.

I fear the blur of every hour,
The loss of ink, of dreams, of power.
But I will write when shadows part,
In scraps of breath, in bits of heart.

For though the time grows thin and fast,
These words, like ghosts, are built to last.
And when the world forgets my voice—
This quiet page will be my choice.

Truth, Fiction, and Whatever’s In Between

 Second semester started the way most things do lately—quietly, and without warning. One day it’s break and long naps and leftover pie, and the next I’m sitting in a cold lecture hall, trying to remember how to take notes like a real person.

I ran into Nox on campus the other day. We haven’t had a real conversation since finals. He's the kind of guy who always has some weird, brilliant thought in his back pocket, ready to drop it mid-conversation like it’s nothing. This time was no different.

We were sitting on the grass behind the science building, watching clouds do what clouds do best—move slowly and never explain themselves. He said, “You ever think about how none of this feels real? Like… what even is reality? One person’s life could sound like a complete lie to someone else.”

I laughed at first. Thought he was just being poetic again. But the more we sat with it, the more it made sense.

There are people out there who’ve never left the city they were born in—and then people like Brooke, who used to fly to Tokyo like it was a weekend errand. People who grew up in quiet houses with dinner at 6 p.m. sharp, and people who raised themselves on cereal and cartoons while their parents worked three jobs. People who believe in God. Or ghosts. Or fate. Or none of it. And every single one of them is telling the truth… at least their version of it.

One man’s truth really is another man’s fiction.

It made me think about my own life. About being raised by two moms. About hopping from country to country before California felt like home. About how someone’s mother once said my hair color explained my sexuality. About how a guy in my psych class last semester said trauma isn't real, just “bad choices.” And how someone else once told me I was lucky for having a “fun, non-traditional family,” like it was a quirky Pinterest board instead of a whole, real life.

What’s fake to you might be sacred to someone else. What’s obvious to me might feel like magic to Nox. It’s wild.

And maybe that’s what college is—learning how to sit with other people’s truths without trying to rewrite them. Learning how to share yours without apologizing for it.

Anyway, second semester has barely started and I already feel like I’ve been hit with a philosophical brick. Thanks, Nox.

Here’s to another few months of learning what’s real—for me, for others, and for whatever lives in the strange, blurry middle.

A Gentler Visit

 After the chaos that was Christmas, Brooke and I needed a reset. Something quieter. No awkward stares across dinner tables or offhanded microaggressions that ruin dessert. So, when her parents invited us to visit them in London this spring, I was… hesitant. Brooke was too, but more in that sigh-and-roll-her-eyes kind of way. Apparently they wanted a "fresh start." Their words, not mine.

We figured: Why not? Worst case, we’d explore the UK and avoid being in the house too long. Best case, maybe we’d all act like semi-functional adults for once.

So, we went.

They picked us up from Heathrow—again—and this time the silence in the car wasn’t as heavy. There was music playing (Coldplay, ironically), and Brooke’s mom asked if we’d eaten. I think she was trying. It didn’t feel perfect, but it felt... less cold.

Their house is just outside of London, in a neighborhood that smells like rain and garden tea. Very posh, very polished, but oddly cozy. Brooke showed me the room she grew up in, though most of it had been remodeled into a guest suite. The only thing untouched was a tiny drawing taped behind the closet door—a crayon sketch of her and Bruce holding hands.

That got me.

The trip was easy, mostly. We wandered around Notting Hill, browsed overpriced bookstores, drank tea that somehow tasted like old wood but cost more than a burger. Took a train to Brighton one day. Another day we caught a local play that had me asleep before Act II (don’t tell her mom, she paid for the tickets).

The most surprising part of it all? Her parents were… human. Still wrapped up in their UK elite mindset, still occasionally tone-deaf, but they actually tried to connect. Her dad even asked me more about med school, and this time he didn’t flinch when I mentioned my moms. He just nodded and said, “Hardworking women then, I imagine,” and that was it. No follow-up questions. No weird smile. Just respect.

I think what made this trip feel different was the absence of expectation. We weren’t hosting. We weren’t putting on a show. We were just... being. Her mom even asked Brooke about her art for once, not just grades or career plans. Her dad sat with Bruce and chatted over scotch like old colleagues. It wasn’t sunshine and lollipops, but it also wasn’t stormclouds and pettiness.

Sometimes peace looks like four people quietly coexisting in a living room, all flipping through their phones, with a movie playing nobody’s watching. Sometimes it’s walking hand-in-hand through an unfamiliar place, knowing you’re both a little more at ease than you were yesterday.

We didn’t solve everything. We’re not suddenly one big blended family. But London gave us a moment to breathe. And for Brooke, I think it gave her a little bit of closure—even if she won’t say it out loud.

It was a gentler visit. And that was more than enough.

The Strangers in My Dreams

ast night, I dreamed of a woman with honey-brown eyes and a crooked smile. She was sitting at the edge of a fountain, humming something soft and wordless. I sat beside her, though we didn’t speak. I remember the wind tugging at her scarf, the weight of something unspoken pressing against us like fog. When I woke up, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was real.

A quick search later, and I found her face. Her obituary. Gone three years now. I’ve never met her. I don’t know her name beyond what the internet told me. Yet somehow, she found her way into my dream.

This isn’t the first time. It’s happened too many times to write off as coincidence. A boy with burn marks on his palms. A man who kept handing me keys. A child who laughed in a language I don’t understand. I meet them all in dreams—and wake to find they no longer walk this world.

I keep asking myself: why me? Why do they visit me, if “visit” is even the right word? Is this some echo of grief I’ve never owned? A trick of my subconscious? Or something more?

I never feel afraid. Just... curious. Sometimes, honored. These strangers arrive and leave as gently as dusk. But their presence stays with me long after morning. I can’t help but wonder if our souls brush against one another somewhere between sleep and silence—if there’s a place beyond time where the dead remember, and we’re invited to remember them back.

I don’t have answers. Only dreams. And maybe, that’s enough.

Journal Pages we found from the investigation

Hey guys! So I figured I'd update you on whats going on! So a few days ago we went to an abandoned graveyard and found an old lab. We also found tapes and journals from these people named Armen Revon and Emmanuel Davis. Brooklynn is going to convert the tapes to mp4 so you guys can see them. And for some of the journal pages I'll upload them here!

Journal Pages

Logs

"Anon"

So we've been getting weird emails from someone named Anon. At first we though it was some sort of gag but apparently not. The emails we've been getting with these messages and videos have been down right creepy. We've been ignoring it for a while, trolls are going to troll; thats just the internet. 

Then we got an email to visit a graveyard from the same person. Like it was a geunine request. We’re all going to investigate it tomorrow night to hopefully figure stuff out! We’ll post the investigation on youtube!