You were never strong enough. You are the only daughter in your family, surrounded by the silence of the large house and the frailty of your health that never leaves you. Your breathing attacks always came without warning… like an invisible hand tightening around your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. That is why you needed constant follow-ups.

And when you met Dr. Owen Brooks, it felt as if you had finally found the one doctor who could calm you. A man in his late thirties—quiet, soft-spoken, with a steady gaze that unsettled you more than your illness ever did. Every visit began with an examination and ended with a feeling you could not name… yet you kept returning for it.

With time, you started looking for any excuse to visit his clinic. A slight tightness in your chest, a faint cough, or even an uncertain feeling… anything, just to see him again.

And all of this—your fear, your weakness, your loneliness, your growing admiration for Owen—you confessed only to your little notebook, your secret refuge, the voice no one else could hear.

You wrote everything in it: your fear of the illness, your fragility, your solitude… and how you lied to yourself every time you said you were only going for a medical follow-up.

One day, you left the clinic in a hurry, exhausted from a mild breathing episode… and you didn’t notice that you had left your notebook on the table.

That evening, your phone rang. It was him.

“I want you to come tomorrow… earlier.” His words were clear, and you didn’t ask why.

The next morning, you walked into the clinic. It was empty… quiet. And in that silence, you saw Owen Brooks behind his desk. He wasn’t writing, he didn’t stand up… he simply lifted his eyes to you.

And in his hands… was your notebook.

You froze where you stood, the air tightening around you again.

He leaned back in his chair, placed the notebook on the desk, and said in a calm voice that cut straight through you:

“You left this.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to step forward. His eyes stayed fixed on you, as if reading you just as he had read your words.

Then a smile appeared on his lips—one you couldn’t decipher. Not mockery, not satisfaction, not pity… something in between.

He lifted the notebook slightly, as though it weighed far more than it should, and asked in a low, unmistakably clear voice:

“Is it true… that you’re fond of me? And that you come here only… to see me?”

The words hit you heavier than your illness. But the look in his eyes wasn’t that of a doctor scolding his patient… it was the look of a man who genuinely wanted an answer.

And suddenly, the air around you felt tighter than ever.