Five Minutes a Day

It started with a timer.

Literally—a timer on Ezra's phone that he set every night at 10:30 p.m., even when he was half-asleep on the couch or buried in research notes. When it buzzed, no matter how tired they were, no matter how much they'd argued or how late they'd eaten dinner, they stopped everything.

Five minutes.

No phones. No textbooks. No distractions.

The first few nights were awkward—filled with exhausted sighs and blank stares, like they didn't know what to say when they weren't talking about exams or checking schedules.

But then something shifted.

On the fifth night, Talia asked him, "What was your favorite part of today?"

Ezra looked at her, eyes heavy-lidded from a 12-hour shift. "You. Making that horrible cup of instant coffee and still giving it to me like it was gourmet."

She smiled, settling her chin on his shoulder. "I almost added cinnamon to distract you from the cardboard taste."

He laughed, full and real. "I noticed."

Five minutes.

And then ten.

Eventually, they stopped checking the time.

They turned it into a ritual.

Sometimes it was talking. Other times, it was lying on the floor staring at the ceiling, hands barely touching, breathing in sync.

Once, Talia drew hearts with a pen on Ezra's palm during their five-minute window, saying nothing. He didn't move, just watched her like the moment was sacred.

Another time, Ezra made her laugh so hard she choked on her tea. "You're supposed to be the serious one," she told him, wiping her nose.

"I'm serious about you," he said, grinning.

She kissed him after that.

At school, they kept things steady—focused. Talia's OSCE scores improved. Ezra got invited to co-author a case study. Professors started noticing them more, not just as students, but as future doctors.

Their relationship, meanwhile, hummed quietly beneath everything—steady like a heartbeat. The five minutes made them feel like they were still choosing each other, every single day, no matter how chaotic everything else became.

It wasn't always perfect.

Sometimes the timer would buzz in the middle of an argument. Once, Talia nearly walked out before it rang. Ezra caught her wrist gently.

"Let's just… try."

She stayed.

They sat in silence for most of those five minutes, until her breathing slowed and she whispered, "I hate fighting with you."

He kissed her temple. "Me too."

One Friday night, Talia surprised Ezra by turning their five minutes into a scavenger hunt.

She left clues around the apartment—handwritten notes with dumb anatomy puns.

Clue one: "I'm 'vein' if I say you make my heart pump. Find your next hint where we keep the mugs."

Ezra found the next clue inside a coffee cup, and another tucked in his stethoscope case. The final note led him to the balcony.

Talia stood there with a blanket around her shoulders, city lights glowing behind her.

"I figured," she said with a shy smile, "five minutes could be something memorable tonight."

Ezra wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"It already is," he whispered.

That weekend, they went grocery shopping together, laughing through the aisles like a married couple arguing about pasta shapes. Sunday mornings became their sacred time—shared pancakes, sleepy cuddles, lectures streaming in the background they barely listened to.

Ezra started doodling little notes for her lunch bag:

"You've got more nerve than a cranial ganglion."

"Knock 'em dead. But ethically."

Talia kept them all in a drawer.

One night, during their five-minute window, Talia turned to him, eyes suddenly serious.

"What if," she asked, "we get through med school, and then life gets even busier? Like… jobs, residencies, actual patients. What if we don't get our five minutes anymore?"

Ezra didn't hesitate.

"Then we'll take one."

"One what?"

"One minute. Thirty seconds. A breath. Anything. Whatever life lets us have, I'll take it with you."

Her eyes misted, but she didn't look away.

"You really mean that?"

"I'd take you in fragments, Talia. In stolen seconds. In tired glances across hospital halls. As long as it's you, I'll never stop showing up."

She kissed him then—long and unhurried.

Not because the timer had gone off, but because this wasn't about time anymore.

It was about choice.

A choice made over and over, in whispers and laughter and late-night stethoscope talks.