Chapter Text
The cup of coffee in your hands is cold.
No longer lukewarm, but cold in that abandoned, forgotten way, where the thin film on top has already settled and the usually comforting smell of espresso has dulled into something bitter and stale. You turn the paper cup between your fingers anyway, more for something to do than out of any intention to drink it. The cardboard sleeve has torn where your thumb keeps digging into it, over and over, like if you keep touching it, time might move faster.
Dr. Zayne is a busy man.
You remind yourself of that every few minutes, like a mantra you don’t entirely believe but repeat anyway. A world-renowned cardiologist, your Dr. Zayne, technically, though the word feels misplaced now, that people cross oceans for just to sit where you are, to hear him speak for fifteen minutes, to be looked at the way he looks at his patients.
Just getting this appointment had required rearranging your entire day, shuffling obligations, skipping meals, waking up earlier than you should have on…well, no sleep at all, really.
Still.
You shift in your seat, trying to feel somewhat alive, the plastic chair creaking faintly beneath you, and grimace.
Would it kill them to put some better chairs in here?
The waiting room hums with low conversation and the occasional cough, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. It presses against your temples, the sound soft but constant, like it’s amplifying the dull ache already sitting behind your eyes. Your body feels heavy, like it’s dragging a step behind your thoughts.
The coffee was supposed to help. Two extra shots of espresso, you’d insisted. The barista had given you a look, half concern and half amusement, but made it anyway.
It hadn’t worked.
You’re still tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes your eyelids burn. But the second you close them, sleep vanishes like something that only exists when you’re not looking for it.
Your name is called, and you startle slightly, blinking back into your body.
“Right, yeah.” You stand a little too quickly, the room tilting for half a second before steadying. Not that that means anything, of course.
You toss the half full coffee into the trash with a quiet, hollow thud and follow the nurse down the hallway you know all too well.
The path is familiar. Too familiar. White walls, polished floors, framed certificates you’ve read more than once out of sheer boredom. You could probably walk it blind at this point. There’s something oddly grounding about that, even as your steps feel just a little unsteady.
Despite the caffeine, the exhaustion haunts you. It settles into your shoulders, drapes over your spine, pulls at your limbs. Each step feels heavier than it should, like you’re wading through something invisible.
It’s almost painful, how tired you are.
And yet, you already know, when you finally lie down later, when the lights are off and everything is quiet, sleep will slip through your fingers again. It always does.
“Apologies for the wait.”
Dr. Zayne’s voice is the same as always, measured, even, controlled to a fault. It greets you the moment you step into his office, as if he’s been expecting you to cross the threshold at that exact second.
You pause for just a fraction of a moment before stepping fully inside.
It could be considered overly formal. Especially considering the two of you used to sit cross-legged on living room floors, arguing over who got to be the “doctor” and who had to be the “patient.” Especially considering you once knew what his laugh sounded like when it wasn’t restrained by the barrier of doctor-patient formality.
But you let it slide.
Formality, you’ve learned, is better than nothing.
“It’s no problem.” You answer, your voice light and absolutely practiced. Your back, however, strongly disagrees as you lower yourself into the chair across from him.
At least these ones are comfortable.
The difference is immediate, and you sink into it just a little more than you mean to, your body betraying how much it needed it.
“So, how have you been feeling lately?”
You almost hate the way Dr. Zayne looks at you.
It’s not unkind. It never is, of course. But it’s…too precise. Too observant. His gaze doesn’t just land on you, it studies, assesses, dissects. It feels like he’s already piecing together answers before you’ve even spoken, like he’s waiting for you to confirm what he already suspects.
Like you’re a problem to be solved.
“Same old, same old.” You shrug lightly, forcing a small smile. “Just need the usual confirmation of my health and I’ll be out of your hair.”
You’re aiming for casual. Dismissive, even. He can’t diagnose you with an issue if you don’t admit there’s an issue in the first place, right?
It doesn’t work.
His eyes narrow. Just slightly. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But you’ve known him too long.
You’ve been made.
“How much sleep have you been getting, on average?” The question lands softly, but it hits exactly where it should. You hesitate for half a second too long.
“8 hours.” You lie. It comes out smooth, like you’ve said it before, like you’ve rehearsed it. Maybe you have.
He sighs.
It’s controlled, but unmistakably there. And something about it makes your shoulders drop, your posture folding in on itself as you sink further into the chair, suddenly feeling younger than you’d like.
“It’s futile to lie.” he says, setting his clipboard down with deliberate care, like the action itself is meant to ground the conversation, as if he’s not your doctor and instead the friend you like to pretend he is. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.” There’s no bite to it. No sharp reprimand. That almost makes it worse.
You look away first.
“I guess I haven’t been sleeping much…at all.”
The admission feels heavier than it should, like it’s been sitting in your chest for longer than you realized. You suppose it has. After all, you hadn’t admitted to anyone that you haven’t been able to sleep. But Dr. Zayne has never been just anyone.
He frowns immediately, the line between his brows deepening as he clicks his pen and starts jotting something down. The sound is rhythmic. Scratch, pause, scratch. At least it fills the brief silence between you.
“In hours?”
“…3.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “Maybe 5 if I’m lucky.”
Your arms fold around yourself without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves as if you could hold yourself together that way.
The pen stops.
You glance up just in time to catch his expression shift. Subtle, but there. His brows lift slightly, and for a moment, the clinical distance slips. For a singular moment, it’s not Dr. Zayne looking at you. And in his eyes?
Concern.
Real, unfiltered concern.
“And you’re still going to work?”
His tone changes with the words. It loses that polished, professional edge, something more familiar bleeding through as he leans forward, forearms resting lightly against the desk. Closer, but not too close.
“Well…yeah.” You let out a small, breathy laugh, like you can make it sound less serious than it is. “It’s not so bad. I’m fine, really.”
Even to your own ears, it sounds thin.
You should’ve known he wouldn’t believe you.
“I can’t prescribe you anything for sleep,” he says after a moment, leaning back again, but not as far as before. “But there are a few remedies you can try.”
The pen starts moving again.
You watch his hands instead of his face. Long fingers, steady movements, neat handwriting that hasn’t changed since you were kids, still annoyingly precise, still perfectly legible. There’s something grounding about his perfectionism, the familiarity of it. But aren’t doctors supposed to have bad handwriting?
And yet…
A slow, creeping disappointment curls in your chest.
That’s it, then. Advice, and a polite dismissal. Your appointment is over. You won’t be seeing Dr. Zayne again for a while.
The realization settles heavier than you expect.
He tears the page cleanly from the pad and extends it toward you. You reach for it at the same time. His fingers brush yours. It’s brief. Barely there. Just the lightest contact.
But it’s enough.
Your breath catches, not visibly, you hope, and you pull your hand back a fraction too quickly before taking the paper, like the delayed reaction might make it less obvious.
“Thank you.” You tuck the slip into your pocket, standing up a little too fast. “I’ll…try this out.”
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face.
It’s gone before you can name it.
“Of course.” His voice returns to that measured calm, but it doesn’t quite settle the same way it did before. “If something urgent comes up, you have my phone number.”
You nod.
Of course you do.
You’ve had it for years.
Neither of you says that part out loud.