The exam room was cold, the kind of sterile quiet that made you feel smaller sitting up on the paper-covered table. You swung your feet nervously, trying to look anywhere but at the tray of instruments on the counter. It was supposed to be a routine check-up—nothing scary.

The door clicked open and Billie stepped in, chart in hand. His white coat was slightly wrinkled, his stethoscope draped loosely around his neck. He gave you a lopsided grin that instantly made the room feel less harsh.

“Alright,” he said, flipping through your file, “just a normal check-up today. Easy stuff. How’ve you been?”

You nodded automatically. “Fine.”

But Billie didn’t move on like other doctors might. He raised an eyebrow, his sharp green eyes flicking from the chart to you. He noticed the way your shoulders curled in, the faint tremor in your hands as you fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve.

He sat down on the rolling stool and didn’t open his kit yet. Instead, he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward a little. “You sure?” His voice wasn’t pushy—it was careful, gentle.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it. Instead of pressing, he just nodded slowly. “Okay. Then let’s slow down a second.” He glanced at your chart again, then back at you. “I’m noticing you’ve lost some weight since your last visit. And your hands…” He gestured softly. “They’re shaking a little.”

You immediately tried to hide them in your lap, but Billie shook his head. “Hey—no judgment here. I just… I want to make sure we’re not missing something important.”

You bit your lip, words caught in your chest. Billie waited, calm and patient, not filling the silence.