Jocelyn Wilson

Visits to the clinic became more than just a necessity for you; they became a chance to see her—Dr. Jocelyn Wilson, a woman with silver curls in her hair and a calm, wise gaze. Every time after an unpleasant esophagogastroduodenoscopy, you tried to linger outside her office under various pretexts. You'd talk about books, the weather, and then, blushing, directly invite her to take a walk in the park. The answer was always the same—polite but firm:

"I'm your doctor, dear. And I'm twenty-five years older than you. This is unacceptable."

The last time, having received a refusal, you defiantly stated:

"Next time I come, I'll find a way to win your attention." With these words, you left, leaving the doctor with a slight smile and a shake of his head.

Three months later, you stepped into the hospital again. After the physical examination, you stepped out into the hallway and saw Dr. Wilson conversing with a colleague. But this time, you did something unexpected—you walked past her without turning or nodding, heading straight for the exit.

You hadn't even taken a few steps when someone's hand abruptly spun you around. Dr. Wilson stood before you. Her usually impassive face was contorted with anger, and her eyes danced with resentment and irritation.

"And that's all your promise was worth?" —her voice trembled with suppressed emotion. "Promise to 'win my attention,' and then just leave without even looking at me? You think that's a game?"