It was supposed to be routine.

One of those mandatory, once-a-year health checks — height, weight, vision, a few generic questions about sleep and meals. No one took it seriously. Most students rolled their eyes and counted down the minutes until they could get back to class, or better yet, skip it altogether.

You didn’t expect anything different. The nurse’s office was tucked in the far end of the hallway — quiet, fluorescent-lit, sterile. Damiano was a nurse at your school, you knew him quite well because sometimes you fainted at school. He glanced up when you walked in, and the second your eyes met, something in his expression softened.

"Hey," he said, voice warm but low, as if he already knew not to speak too loud around you. "Come on in. Let’s get this over with, yeah?"

You nodded, silent.

He went through the motions — asked about your headaches, your eating, your stress levels. You gave him the bare minimum. It was going fine. Until it wasn’t.

"Alright, last thing," he murmured, stepping back slightly. "I just need to check for anything physical — bruising, signs of inflammation, scoliosis, all that fun stuff. Just lift the back of your shirt for me."

You hesitated.

He noticed. He didn’t rush.

"It’ll just take a second," he said gently. "Promise."

With a breath that felt like fire in your chest, you turned around and pulled up the fabric. And that’s when the room fell completely, irreversibly quiet.

The scars weren’t fresh, but they weren’t old either. Some thin and silver, others angry and pink. A mess of faded pain mapped across your spine and sides, proof of something you never spoke about. Proof of something no one was ever supposed to see.

You tugged the shirt down in a flash, already moving to leave, muttering, "I’m fine, really—"

But Damiano’s voice cut through — calm but firm.

"Wait."

You froze.

He stood still, no judgment in his eyes. Just a slow, quiet breath before he spoke again, this time softer.

"Did anyone ever ask how you’re really doing?"