The first thing *** noticed in the room was the sound of the doctor's pen.
Not the doctor.
Not the smell of disinfectant.
Not the white walls.
The pen.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
It moved slowly across the paper like a tiny animal dragging its claws over dry wood.
The room itself looked sterile in the way medical spaces always do. Everything was white, but not the clean kind of white people imagine when they think of hospitals. It was the tired white of paint that had existed too long under fluorescent lights.
*** sat in a chair across from the doctor's desk.
His hands rested loosely on his knees.
He was slouched slightly, like gravity had decided to treat him a little more seriously than everyone else.
The doctor flipped a page in the file.
Then another.
His glasses reflected the overhead light, hiding his eyes for a moment.
Finally he spoke.
"So."
The word hung in the air.
*** didn't respond.
He wasn't ignoring him.
At least not consciously.
But inside his head there was a much louder conversation happening.
Pathetic.
The word appeared like it always did.
Quiet.
Accurate.
You're pathetic.
The doctor cleared his throat.
"I'd like to talk about a few things."
Another pause.
"Your blood results, for example."
***'s gaze drifted down toward the floor.
There was a small crack in one of the tiles.
He started tracing it with his eyes.
The doctor continued.
"There are irregularities."
Paper rustled.
"I'm not going to go into the entire medical explanation unless you want me to."
Silence.
"But there are signs that your body has been under… considerable stress."
The doctor leaned back slightly.
"And then there are the marks."
His eyes moved toward ***'s neck.
Even under the collar of his shirt, faint discoloration was visible.
Bruising.
The kind that made doctors ask questions.
The doctor folded his hands.
"Do you want to explain how those appeared?"
Inside ***'s mind, the answer came instantly.
Because you're weak.
But he didn't say that.
Instead he kept staring at the crack in the floor tile.
The doctor sighed quietly.
"Alright."
He flipped another page.
"Then let's talk about something else."
He tapped the file.
"You stopped taking your medication."
Pause.
"And you haven't visited your psychologist in… what was it…"
He checked the date.
"…four months."
*** blinked slowly.
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
"Why?"
The question lingered.
The silence stretched.
Inside ***'s mind, another thought surfaced.
Because it doesn't matter.
Another followed.
Because nothing changes.
Then the worst one.
The one that always returned.
The world would be better without you in it.
The thought didn't feel dramatic.
It didn't feel emotional.
It felt… logical.
Like solving a math problem.
The doctor spoke again.
"***."
No response.
"***."
Still nothing.
The doctor's jaw tightened.
And then suddenly—
BANG.
His fist slammed into the desk.
"DAMN IT, ARE YOU EVEN HERE?!"
The papers jumped slightly.
The pen rolled a few centimeters.
***'s eyes slowly lifted.
Then something unexpected happened.
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Just a small, quiet chuckle.
"Sorry."
He rubbed his face.
"I haven't been sleeping much."
The doctor stared at him.
"I work a lot."
*** shrugged lightly.
"So I kind of know what I'm doing."
The doctor studied him carefully.
There was a very specific look doctors develop after years of practice.
The look that says:
I know you're lying.
But also:
I know you believe the lie.
After a long moment the doctor closed the file.
"Fine."
His voice sounded tired now.
"You can go."
*** stood up.
For a moment it looked like the doctor wanted to say something else.
Maybe something personal.
But instead he simply turned back to his paperwork.
*** walked out of the office.
The hallway smelled like antiseptic.
A nurse passed him without looking up.
Somewhere a phone rang.
Another door closed.
Normal life.
Normal people.
*** stepped outside the clinic.
The sunlight felt strangely bright after the artificial light inside.
He started walking down the sidewalk.
Hands in his pockets.
Head slightly lowered.
And then the thought returned again.
The world would be better without you.
It came naturally.
Like breathing.
Like gravity.
Then—
THUMP.
Something hit his leg.
*** looked down.
A football rolled slowly across the pavement.
He stopped walking.
Four kids ran toward him.
All of them laughing.
"Sorry!" one shouted.
*** picked up the ball with his foot.
He tapped it lightly once.
Then kicked it back toward them.
The kids stopped.
One of them stared at him.
Really stared.
"…Wait."
The boy's eyes widened.
"Are you ******?"
*** tilted his head slightly.
Another kid spoke immediately.
"My brother saw you playing ******!"
A third one jumped in.
"Yeah! You're really ******!"
*** shook his head immediately.
A small, humble smile appeared on his face.
"No."
He raised his hands slightly.
"I'm not that ******."
The kids started talking over each other.
"But you did that thing where you—"
"And that goal—"
"And the move with your foot—"
Their words blurred together.
Excited.
Pure.
Admiring.
*** kept shaking his head gently.
"No, really."
"I'm not that ******."
Eventually the kids returned to their game.
They ran.
They shouted.
They laughed.
The ball bounced between them.
*** took a few steps forward.
Then stopped.
He turned around.
Looked at them one more time.
Four kids.
Running freely.
No weight.
No voices in their heads.
Just happiness.
His vision started to blur.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
Then another.
He whispered quietly.
"…I envy you."