Guy Who Bullied Me Through High School Needed My Help In The ER
I’ve been a nurse for six years—long shifts, aching feet—but I love it. It’s where I feel like I truly matter. No one cares what I look like, just that I do my job well.
But today, my past walked through the ER doors.
“Alright, let’s see what we got—” I looked up from my chart. Robby Langston.
His eyes widened. Recognition flickered, then an awkward glance at my face—at my nose. Middle school, high school… he made my life hell. Big Becca. Toucan Sam. The names that haunted me. But now, he sat on the hospital bed, cradling his wrist, needing me.
“Becca?” His voice was hesitant. “Wow, uh… it’s been a while.”
I kept my tone professional. “What happened to your wrist?”
As I wrapped his injury, he let out a nervous chuckle. “Guess karma’s funny, huh? You taking care of me after all that.” Then, to my shock, “I’m sorry. For everything.”
I froze. An apology? From him? The kid who made me dread mirrors? I forced myself to stay composed, fastening the brace.
“I appreciate that,” I said, unsure if I meant it.
Later, we found out his wrist was fractured, and he needed a cast. As I prepped supplies, he shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been helping with a youth basketball league. We’re planning a fundraiser, but now I can’t do much. You were always good at organizing things in school… would you want to help?”
I hesitated. The old me would have laughed in his face. But something about his expression—genuine, almost regretful—made me pause. “Let me think about it.”
Days passed before I saw a flyer for the fundraiser. It was for a good cause. I volunteered without mentioning Robby. At the event, I watched him interact with the kids—encouraging them, celebrating their small victories. Not the cocky high school jock I remembered.
During cleanup, he found me. “Hey,” he said softly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I saw they needed help.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming. Really.”
As we worked, I caught a glimpse of an older man watching Robby—his father, I guessed. Their conversation was short, tense. But when his dad left, Robby looked… different. Almost hopeful.
Later, as I packed up, he walked me to my car.
“I won’t lie,” I told him. “What you did back then hurt. A lot.”
He lowered his gaze. “I know. And I’m sorry. I was too immature to see how deep words can cut.”
I exhaled. “I appreciate your apology. It doesn’t fix everything. But it’s something.”
A week later, I found an envelope in my locker.
Becca,
Thank you for helping. The kids had a blast. I’m grateful you gave me a chance—and I’ll keep trying to prove I’ve changed.
—Robby
Tucked inside was a photo from the fundraiser—me, Robby, and a group of smiling kids.
We often think certain hurts define us forever. But sometimes, life gives us a chance to see people in a new light. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means choosing to move forward. And that, in its own way, is powerful.
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