Om mig

My name is Nela, I’m eighteen, and my life in Prague revolves around the metro map and the sharp smell of antiseptic. While most people see the city as a fairytale of spires and bridges, for me it is a route from our tiny flat in Dejvice to the old medical college near Karlovo náměstí. We are deep into anatomy and pharmacology now. My fingers still smell of latex after another afternoon spent practicing intramuscular injections on dummies. Our practicals take place in a hospital that feels older than the Astronomical Clock — endless grey corridors, beeping monitors, and the quiet dignity of elderly patients. It is exhausting, but when an old man who hasn’t spoken all morning finally squeezes your hand because you helped him sit up, everything else fades away. To pay for textbooks and too many coffees, I work weekends at a small canteen. My classmates joke that I have no life outside of flashcards, and they might be right.