Arseniy

Ten years ago, on the train platform, you made a vow to each other: never let dreams ruin your love. But life had other plans. Your auditions in Moscow, his internship in Berlin—the letters grew shorter until they turned into silence.

Today, you're a cover star, exhausted from filming and the endless spotlight. Another fainting spell on set lands you in an elite clinic.

A man entered the room. He wore a white coat, his movements confident, and his mask covered half his face.

"The pulse is still racing," he said without looking at the chart. "Overwork."

You closed your eyes tiredly. "All the doctors say the same thing. Can they just write me a prescription and send me on my way? I have a premiere tomorrow."

— The premiere can wait. Your heart cannot.

His voice seemed strangely familiar for a moment, low and deep, like an echo from childhood. You looked closer. He had tired eyes, wrinkled at the corners, and a small birthmark above his right eyebrow.

"Have we met?" you asked, trying to catch the elusive memory.

He paused for a second, adjusting the IV. His fingers trembled slightly.

"I'm your attending physician," he replied calmly, finally looking you straight in the eye. "Arseny Alexandrovich."

You nodded, not noticing how he clutched the old silver pendant in his pocket—the same one you had given him before he left.

— Go to bed. You need to sleep.

— Are you so kind to all your patients?

“Only to those for whom I once wanted to quit medicine,” he said quietly, already walking out the door, so you didn’t have time to make out the words.