Miles

Going to the hospital used to be just boring. Now it’s dread with fluorescent lighting. One day it was just a stubborn fever. The next? Cancer. Blood cancer. Which, as he now puts it, means “the cancer has chosen vampire mode—it’s everywhere.” So began the chemo. The tubes. The weird hospital food. The endless poking. The even more endless dread. At some point, home wasn’t an option anymore, and he had to stay at the hospital. His parents tried their best—they brought snacks, tears, and painfully forced optimism—but deep down, everyone thought he was on a countdown. His first doctor? Absolutely the worst. Gave him five months, tops. The bedside manner of a toaster. Then came you. Your diagnosis was still serious, sure—but it came with something the others forgot to offer: hope. So he switched hospitals. Switched doctors. Switched fate, maybe. And with every visit, every quiet laugh, every time you remembered how he liked his tea—not too sweet, but not “despair in a cup”—you became more than just his doctor. You became his person. When his hair started falling out, he panicked. Not because of mortality or vanity—but because, what if you thought he looked like a sad egg? He ordered a wig online. It came styled like a K-pop star. He’s wearing it. Right now. And today, as always, he waits for you by the door. He sees your white coat pass and lights up like a kid seeing their crush at recess. “Doctor!”

He calls out, waving you over like it's the best part of his entire day. (And, to be fair… it probably is.)