[Present]
The clock read 1:59 PM.
Dr. Li Zeyu closed the file in front of him with practiced ease, his fingers moving with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before. A soft click echoed as the folder snapped shut, now the last patient's name is no longer in sight.
He reached for the next one, expression unreadable.
He has always liked it this way — the stillness between appointments, the faint scent of cedar from the diffuser, the way the clinic hummed quietly around him like a machine too well-oiled to falter.
This was the life he had built. Predictable. Measured. Orderly. And more importantly, clean and sanitized.
He had long ago stopped thinking about the past. Or at least, he thought he had.
"Sun Ruolin."
The name was called outside the consultation room.
Zeyu glanced at the file again. The name didn't ring loud in his mind, not immediately. He had seen too many names; had seen the same name only for a stranger to walk into the room. Heard too many stories in the last reunion about everyone's life to pester. It was just another patient. Another illness to cure.
But the moment the door opened — the moment she stepped in — the world, as he knew it, tilted upside down.
She walked in gently, like she had always done.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Like the soft wind in the middle of blooming flower field.
Just... quietly present.
And suddenly, everything came back.
And suddenly, his mind forgot how to think, his heart forgot how to beat. The composure he'd perfected for years fractured in an instant. Just like that first time he saw the name 'Ruolin' on a patient file and let himself hope, foolishly, breathlessly, that it might be her… only to be met with a stranger who merely shared the name.
But this time, it was her. Real. In a flesh. There is no mistake. He could forget the entire human anatomy but never her face.
And he wasn't ready. No. Not even close. He didn't even know what to consider of this. A pleasant surprise? A training for his heart? He froze where he stood. Fingers twitching he needed to grip the edge of the table for... reassurance.
He may looked calm, but inside? He thought he might combust.
His gaze trailed down her figure as she walked in.
That pale pink knitted sweater. Loose, but carefully chosen. The way the sleeves covered her wrists, almost swallowing her hands. The long skirt that moved with her steps. The same dark hair brushed over her shoulder, tucked behind her ear with a soft ribbon clip — sky blue.
She sat down without a word.
Lifted her head.
And smiled.
That smile — the one that didn't fight for attention, didn't chase for affection — only offered warmth, like a candle flickering in a quiet room. He swallowed.
"Hi…" She said it softly. No tremble. No accusation. Not too formal either. As if she was addressing one of her pleasant memory instead of one that, he was sure, has made her cry.
It was just one syllable.
And it broke something open in him.
And for the first time, he found himself questioning whether it is alright to speak at all.
He felt it first in his chest — a tightening, unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling.
For years, he had prepared himself for the possibility of seeing her again. Cities overlapped. Lives crossed. The world, after all, was not as large as it seemed.
But he never imagined she would walk into his clinic as a patient. Smiling as if the past had been folded into a letter, sealed and shelved somewhere quiet; somewhere secure.
Zeyu sat down slowly, composing himself as he had been trained to do — spine straight, tone neutral.
He said her name, as he would with any patient. But if one were to listen too closely, they might hear the hesitation in his voice. Dr. Li never hesitates.
"Miss Sun… what brings you in today?"
And he almost cursed himself at that.
Not Ruolin.
Not Linlin, the name he used to murmur during library naps and late phone calls.
Just Miss Sun. As if they have no history at all.
And Ruolin? She merely tilted her head slightly.
"I've been having some dizziness. A bit of chest tightness, but I'm not sure... My friends insisted I get checked."
Still the same voice. Measured and calm. Still the girl who downplayed her own suffering because she didn't want to inconvenience others.
He wrote down her symptoms without looking up. Because if he looked at her too long, he might forget where he was.
~×~
The check-up proceeded like any other.
He asked questions. She answered.
Her blood pressure. Her pulse. Her breathing. He noted the subtle strain when she inhaled. Not obvious — but there.
"Have you experienced shortness of breath when walking or climbing stairs?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. But I thought it was just from skipping exercise lately."
He marked that down. His pen trembled just slightly.
She hadn't changed. Not really. Still small, still graceful, still draped in soft colors like spring choosing not to bloom too loudly.
But he had changed.
He was no longer the boy who held her hand in the library corridors. No longer the one who ran through rain just to meet her for five stolen minutes. No longer the lovesick fool who would go to the restroom every 10 minutes just to pass by her class.
He had become the man who let her go. The man who had chosen ambition and filial duty over love. Over her.
And now, she sat in front of him — not angry, not distant — just warm. And he swore that warmth burned more than any bitterness could have.
When he finished the examination, he closed the file. "We'll run a few tests. It might take a few days to get a clearer picture."
She nodded. "Alright. Thank you, Dr. Li."
Thump.
Not Zeyu.
Not even Li Zeyu.
Just Dr. Li.
He didn't react, but his chest ached at the sound of her familiar voice calling him with such a formal name.
As she stood to leave, he watched her — the ribbon clip catching light like a quiet echo from the past. She's always been obsessed with those bow clips. He once bought it in every colour so that she wouldn't have trouble picking what to wear.
She bowed slightly, the way she always did, even when it wasn't needed.
"You've built a beautiful clinic," she said, eyes scanning the room with gentle appreciation. "Feels like someone thought about what visitors would hope to feel. It's kind."
"No, it's because you hate hospitals," he wanted to say, but the words got stuck in his throat.
She didn't wait for a reply.
The door clicked softly behind her.
And for the first time in years, Dr. Li Zeyu forgot which file was next, what time it is, and if he deserves a lunchbreak at all.
He only stared at the door, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The room, once immaculate, now felt off-balance. Not because it had changed. Not because he forgot to disinfect the room.
But because she had been in it.
And she was still the same.