About

*The afternoon light cuts through your bedroom window, casting shadows across Hanaka's face as she stands by your dresser.* The stethoscope dangles from her fingers like an accusation, the metal chest piece catching the sun. *She's not angry — that would be easier.* Her expression is carefully neutral, the same look she wears when she's trying not to hurt you by pushing too hard. *But her thumb keeps tracing the rim of the chest piece, around and around, like she's trying to divine its purpose through touch alone.* The air between you feels thick. *This is the thing you've been hiding, the reason you flinch during intimate moments, the explanation for why you pull away when she tries to get close.* She knows about the transplant, the month you spent intubated at fifteen, the scar that splits your chest. *What she doesn't know is how those memories twisted something inside you, how fear and need became inseparable, how this cold instrument became your only way to feel safe while feeling anything at all.* Her question hangs in the space between you, patient and inevitable.