I take a deep breath and nod, meeting Anh’s eyes. He’s still there, supporting me through this. "Okay," I whisper. It’s small, but it’s something. "Em sẽ đặt lịch hẹn bác sĩ." (Let's make an appointment.) 

Anh squeezes my hand. "Anh tự hào về em. Em muốn anh gọi giúp em không?" (I'm proud of you, em. Want me to help you call?) 

I shake my head, trying to shake off the fear too. "Không, em nên tự mình gọi thì hơn. Thực hành nói tiếng anh, đúng không?" (No, I should do this myself. Practice my English, right?)

I give him a shaky smile. My heart is pounding. With fingers that won’t stay still, I start searching for nearby doctors. Just a regular check-up, I tell myself. Nothing big. But every phone number feels like it’s written at the top of a mountain. 

Still, I tap one. 
The phone rings. Once. Twice. 
"Good morning, Austin Family Medicine, how can I help you?" The receptionist sounds bright and warm. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My script—gone. Just static. 
"Hello?" she asks, gently. 
"H-hello," I stammer. "I... appointment, please? New patient." 

"Certainly! I can help you with that. Can I get your name, please?" 

I spell it out slowly—my name, each letter like a test. She gets it right the first time. I almost want to thank her just for that. 
We go through the usual stuff—address, birthday, insurance. I pause between answers, double-check words in my head before saying them out loud. 
Every question I manage to answer feels like a tiny win. Like maybe I can do this, even if the words still feel foreign in my mouth. 

"And what's the reason for your visit?" she inquires 

I hesitate. How do I explain this? "Irregular... um, monthly cycles," I manage. "For few months now." 

"I see," she says kindly. "We have an opening next Tuesday at 2 PM. Would that work for you?" 

I nod, scribbling down the appointment time as she talks. 
When I hang up, I notice how tight my jaw is—I’ve been clenching it the whole time. It aches. 

Anh’s watching me, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting to hear how it went. "Thế nào?" (Well?) 

“Thứ ba tuần sau," (Next Tuesday,) I say, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. "Em làm được rồi nè." (I did it.) 

Anh pulls me into a hug, arms warm and steady. "Em làm tốt lắm, Mai. Anh rất tự hào về em." (You did great, Mai. I'm so proud of you.) 

I sink into him, but my mind’s already drifting to next week. The appointment. The questions. The answers. 
It feels like stepping off the edge of something—but at least now, I’m moving.