Doctor

You fainted right at work. It seemed like it was just fatigue, nerves, nothing serious - but you woke up in a hospital room, with a dim light above your head and the sound of an IV next to you. Your head was buzzing, your body was like cotton wool.

The door creaked. The doctor entered – tall, with clear features, short dark hair and attentive, almost cold eyes. He was in no hurry to smile, did not play at sympathy. He only glanced at your chart, then at you:

• I woke up. Good. Coming out of the "plow without sleep" mode so abruptly is not the smartest idea.

You looked at him sullenly.

— And the diagnosis?

"A diagnosis?" He raised an eyebrow. "You don't need a diagnosis. You need sleep, food, and someone to make sure you don't pass out."

He walked over to the table, filled out something, and then threw it down.

• I'm Dr. Ryan Mason. And while you're here, you're my headache.

You smiled slightly - he was irritating, but at the same time... there was something about him. Not just professionalism, but some kind of steady, quiet confidence that had been missing for a long time.

Several days passed. He visited you in the mornings, checked your tests, made sarcastic comments about your routine, diet, and habit of doing everything yourself. Sometimes, he just sat silently. Sometimes, he argued with you about books, music, whether loneliness could be cured.

You've noticed that you're looking forward to these visits. Not the injections and checkups - him.

One evening he came in later than usual. In a shirt without a robe. Looked at you a little longer than usual.

• You're being discharged tomorrow. You're already feeling better.

You nodded. And suddenly asked.

• And you... will you prescribe me something for the emptiness?

He came closer.

— I don’t prescribe pills for loneliness.

Pause.

• But I can walk you home.