Chapter Text
You fiddle with your fingers as you are awaiting Zayne's return. The smell of antiseptic sharp in your nose. His office is noticeably tidy, sterile and far too cold- not unlike him. You glance toward the door, half-expecting Zayne to stride in, clipboard in hand, with that usual frost in his eyes. Something was different with him lately. Your appointments with him as your primary care physician seemed to never linger. No unusually long glances and simple questions of how you were that morning or 'have you eaten?'. It's as if he wasn't known to you beyond his work.
Your furrowed brows and heavy thoughts were soon interrupted by his office door steadily opening. You straighten your posture as you watch him. His steps are measured, face unreadable, and the air around him seems heavier, colder somehow. His gaze, through his glasses, flickers to you for the briefest of seconds before landing firmly on the chart in his hands. No greeting. No warmth. Just clinical precision.
"Your blood pressure has stabilized," he says with his tone detached. He doesn't ask how you're feeling. He doesn't even look at you as he flips through his notes. His words now clipped, devoid of emotion, as though he's speaking to an empty room instead of you. You try to meet his eyes, to catch some flicker of acknowledgment, anything to prove you’re more than just another patient in his schedule. But he avoids you, his focus glued to the numbers and symptoms on the page. It stings more than it should.
“Are you still experiencing chest pain?” he asks, finally looking up, but his eyes unreadable.
You hesitate, the words caught in your throat. “Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer than you intended. He nods curtly, making a note on the chart. “You need to rest more and avoid overexerting yourself. Stick to the medication regimen. If anything worsens, you know where to find me.” And just like that, the conversation feels over. No further questions, no concern laced in his voice, just instructions, well orders, really. You should be used to this by now, but you’re not.
“Zayne…” His name slips out before you can stop yourself, a quiet plea for something more... anything more. But when he looks at you again, his expression remains impenetrable, as if he’s locked every emotion behind an icy wall.
“Follow the plan,” he says, cutting you off. “You’ll be fine.” The words feel hollow. You want to ask him why he’s like this, why he's keeping you at arm’s length. But the weight in his tone, the subtle tightness in his posture, warns you against it. There’s something he’s not saying, something buried beneath the layers of ice.
You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, deciding it’s not worth pushing. He moves to the door without another glance, his coat swishing softly against the sterile floor. “Take care,” he says over his shoulder, the words so impersonal they might as well not exist. And then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the cold, silent room. The ache in your chest isn’t from your condition, it’s something deeper, something you don’t want to name.
You stand up slowly from your chair. As you gather your things, you tell yourself you’ll stop letting this affect you. If Zayne wants to keep you at a distance, fine. You’ll just build your own walls to match his. But as you walk out the door, a part of you knows it won’t be that simple.
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You step into the cool evening air, the crisp breeze biting at your cheeks as you leave the Hospital behind. The walk home feels longer than usual, each step weighed down by thoughts you can’t shake. His voice, cold and measured, echoes in your head: 'Follow the plan. You’ll be fine'. The words were meant to reassure, but all they did was cement the growing distance between you.
Your apartment is quiet when you arrive, too quiet. The sound of your keys dropping onto the counter seems unnaturally loud, a hollow reminder of the silence you’ve grown used to. You toss your bag onto the couch and sink down beside it, exhaustion seeping into your bones.
Your phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark and unassuming. You reach for it, hesitating for just a moment before unlocking it. Zayne's contact name stares back at you. The last text you sent, 'Let me know if there’s anything I should be doing differently', remains unread. You don’t even know why you sent it. Maybe you were hoping for a response, something that felt more human than the clipped words he offered during your frequent appointments. But the silence was his answer, and it’s deafening.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to type something, but what would you even say? Why do you care for everyone but me? Why are you so distant? The questions sit heavy on your chest, but you know better than to ask. Zayne doesn’t let people in, and you’re not sure you have the energy to fight through the ice anymore.
You lock your phone and set it down, letting your head fall back against the couch. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. You stare at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the day in your mind. It’s not just Zayne’s coldness that hurts.... it’s the way it makes you feel. Like you’re not worth the effort. Like you’re just another task on his never-ending to-do list. You shouldn’t care so much, but you do.
Your chest tightens, a dull ache spreading outward, and for a brief moment, you wonder if it’s your heart condition acting up. But no—this is something else entirely. Something deeper. You shake your head, forcing yourself to stand. The last thing you need is to spiral into this pit of self-pity. You’ve survived worse, haven’t you? You’ll survive this, too. You lock your phone and set it down, letting your head fall back against the couch. The silence presses in, but then, just as you start to move, your phone buzzes.
You freeze. The screen lights up with a message from Zayne.
'Don’t ignore your health. Call if you need anything.'
You stare at the words, heart hammering in your chest. It's not much, but it's more than you expected. For a moment, the coldness between you seems to fade, replaced by a small flicker of hope.