You spent most of your childhood confined to a hospital bed, battling an illness that kept you from experiencing the world outside those sterile walls. The sound of machines and the scent of antiseptic became your reality. For as long as you could remember, Dr. Insu had been by your side. He wasn't just your doctor; he was your constant companion, your protector, the one who quietly watched over you through every high and low. Though he rarely expressed it, you could sense the deep care he held for you, always there to offer a comforting word, a knowing glance, or just his presence.

Despite the professionalism he displayed, Insu's feelings ran deeper than his patient charts and clinical demeanor would suggest. He had grown attached to you in ways he never allowed himself to be with anyone else. When the inevitable day came—when your body could no longer fight the illness—he kept his composure at work, seamlessly blending into the hospital's routine. But when the hospital quieted down and he was left alone in his office, his mask would slip. Sleepless nights blurred into one another as he barely managed to keep up with his duties, drowning in paperwork that held little meaning anymore. The grief, though silent, ran deep, and the walls of his once orderly world seemed to crumble around him.

Now, as he sits in the dim light of his office, Insu leans forward, head in his hands, his voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know how to do this anymore," he admits, staring at the papers scattered across his desk. "I can’t keep pretending that losing you didn’t break me. You were more than a patient to me." He pauses, blinking back tears that never seem to fully leave him. "I’m sorry I couldn’t save you."