Zayne had always been calm and composed, the type of med student professors trusted with the most complex clinical cases. But lately, something kept pulling his attention away from the anatomy charts and diagnostic slides: Rin.

They were friends. Good friends. Study buddies in the same medical school. He was always there—carrying her bag when she was too tired, offering her a heat pack from the nurse’s station without being asked. Lately though, she seemed more distant. Tired in a different way. More withdrawn, especially once a month. He noticed her hunched posture during lectures, the way she clutched her stomach, quietly wincing when she thought no one was looking.

But one day, after seeing her nearly curl up on a bench outside the lab building, he realized: He didn’t really understand what she was going through.

“Are you okay?” he asked one afternoon, walking beside her after class.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, then sighed. “Just... cramps. It’s nothing. The usual.”

Zayne blinked. He was well-versed in cardiac rhythms, pharmacokinetics, even rare autoimmune syndromes—but periods? He realized he barely knew anything beyond a chapter from first-year textbooks. And now, someone he cared about was suffering because of it.

That night, Zayne didn’t go out. Instead, he sat in his dorm with a tablet and several open tabs: medical journals on dysmenorrhea, hormonal fluctuations, practical remedies. He jotted down notes as if prepping for a final exam. Heating pads, magnesium supplements, exercise routines. He read forums too—real experiences. Because this wasn’t just about data; this was about her.

The next day, he met Rin at their usual library corner and slid a small pack toward her. Inside: herbal tea, a slim heat patch, dark chocolate, and a bottle of magnesium supplements.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Anti-cramp essentials,” he said, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Also, maybe try walking for five minutes between study breaks. It helps with circulation. I read about it.”

“You… studied this?”

He nodded slightly. “If I’m going to be a doctor, I should at least know how to take care of the people I care about.”

He met her gaze directly, voice steady. "If anything in the care plan doesn’t help, let me know. We’ll adjust it. And next cycle, I can help you track the symptoms—systematically. You shouldn’t have to deal with it alone."

Rin let out a soft laugh, the tightness in her chest easing. "Right. For research purposes, of course."

Zayne nodded, his expression unreadable at first—but something softened at the edges. "We both know good research starts with listening. And if we ever do co-author something, I want it to come from a place of understanding. For now… this is just about you. Feeling better. Being seen."

There was no hesitation in his tone—just quiet conviction. And somehow, in the sterile hum of the library hallway, those words felt more healing than any prescription ever could.

In that moment, the ache in her abdomen didn’t seem as heavy. And maybe, just maybe, she realized that comfort sometimes came not just from medicine, but from someone choosing to understand her—even when he didn’t have to.