[Present]
The weather that day was unusually soft.
The rain had passed earlier in the afternoon, leaving the sidewalks damp and glistening, the air tinged with the earthy scent of wet pavement and quiet light. The sun, now slipping westward, poured through thinning clouds like tea steeping through silk — golden, low, and slow.
Ruolin stood outside the LZU Medical Clinic, the late breeze brushing her skirt and ribbon clip like an old friend. The air was cool with leftover rain, but touched now with the warmth of a day beginning to fade.
She had taken the train and walked the last two blocks to get here. It wasn't far, but by the time she reached the clinic doors, a tightness had already gathered under her ribs — faint, but there. Not painful yet, just… pressure. Like a small thread tugging inward as if it was trying to warn her.
The bell chimed as she entered the clinic. Inside, everything was just as it had been — Quiet. Clean. Warm. The scent of jasmine filling the air. The hush of careful design comforting her anxiety. Just like last time.
Ruolin checked in at the counter, bowed politely to the receptionist, and waited at the same seat she sat two days ago.
No one else in the lounge seemed worried. One child was giggling with his father. An older woman leafed through a magazine. A mother scolding her child for running around and gave him her phone to keep him occupied. Life moved.
She sighed. It seems like she's the only one who overthink too much.
"Miss Sun?"
The nurse's voice was kind, familiar, but it did startled her. She looked up, her grip on the strap of her bag tightened just slightly as she acknowledged her with a nod.
"Dr. Li is ready for you."
She was escorted by the nurse just like last time. The door opened and she thanked the nurse quietly with a smile.
He was there again — sitting, waiting, coat crisp and eyes unreadable as he checked the patient file. He isn't wearing his glasses today. Hair neater. A pen tucked into his coat pocket with absolute precision. The kind of stillness only years of self-discipline could shape.
And yet, when she stepped in, something in his gaze softened just slightly, as if the sight of her untied something in him he wasn't ready to name.
She sat down quietly.
"Thank you for coming back in," he said, voice steady. "I've reviewed your preliminary tests from last time, and I'd like to run a few more. Just to clarify a few things."
She gulped, but nodded. "Alright."
He glanced at the screen. "Some of the markers we found — BNP levels, ECG changes, mild fluid retention — they raise concern. Nothing conclusive yet. But enough to be careful."
"You think something's wrong with my heart?" she asked gently, looking at the screen he was looking although she didn't understand a thing.
"Possibly," he said. "But we'll know more after the echocardiogram. It's better to be thorough."
~×~
The second round of tests didn't take long. Bloodwork. An ultrasound. Quiet moments in a hallway filled with artificial warmth and low music. By the time she returned to his office, the sunlight had grown golden and low, filtering through the windows in quiet slants, as if the day itself had begun to exhale.
She sat down again. Same chair. Same man. But this time, his expression held something more settled.
"I have the results," he said.
Her eyes lifted quickly, tension flickering in them as her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her skirt.
Li Zeyu noticed.
He didn't say anything that would draw attention to her nerves. But after a pause, he reached for a notepad, then set it aside — a small, deliberate gesture. And when he finally spoke, his voice was steadier.
"You're not here alone," he said, not looking away. "Whatever this is, we'll face it one step at a time."
Just that.
But it was enough to loosen something in her chest. She nodded silently — fingers still curled, but not as tight now.
"They point toward early-stage heart failure."
The words didn't strike like thunder. They came in quiet and clinical, even gentle. But Ruolin's mind slowed to a crawl after hearing it.
"Heart… failure?" Her voice trembled faintly, like a violin string just barely touched.
He nodded, measured. "In the earliest stages, the heart still pumps, but not as efficiently. That pressure you've felt, the shortness of breath, and fatigue even after light activity... They make sense now."
She blinked. Once. Twice.
"But I've been fine," she said, her eyes flicking to her patient file. The next word came out quieter. "... mostly."
Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap. "I... I mean— I only started feeling off recently." She let out a quiet breath, almost like she was trying to convince herself. "Just tired. That's all."
"That's how it often begins," he replied. "It was subtle and gradual. It doesn't mean you've done anything wrong."
She looked down. Her fingers curled again, slowly, this time into her sleeve. A gesture he knew so well whenever she's scared.
"I thought I was just… out of shape. Or stressed. I didn't want to overthink it."
Her breath caught, embarrassed. "There were times I'd get dizzy after climbing stairs. Or just… standing for too long. Once, I had to sit down in a bookstore because my legs felt too heavy."
He didn't interrupt. Just listened.
"But I thought it was just me."
There was a moment of silence as Zeyu studied her expression. And it was in this moment where he wished he could do more than just... talk.
"It's easy to dismiss symptoms," he said softly instead. "Especially when you're used to carrying things alone."
She almost smiled. Because it was the kind of thing he used to say — in his own way — when she stayed up too late studying or skipped dinner. "Don't overwork. Don't forget your body," he used to say. A constant thread of care beneath all the distance.
"So… what should I do now?" She asked hesitantly.
"We start managing it. You're catching it early, so that gives us room."
She looked up at him.
That steadiness in his voice. That quiet gravity. It hadn't changed. Years apart, and yet this — him — still felt like something known.
"We'd like to begin regular monthly monitoring including medication adjustments, some imaging, and routine blood work. Nothing invasive," Zeyu continued gently. "But it's important we stay ahead of this."
He paused, his voice softening. "If you're comfortable, I'll have you sign consent before you leave. We can take this one step at a time."
Ruolin didn't answer right away.
Her gaze had dropped to her file again, fingers loosely interlocked on her lap. The silence stretched heavy with thought. She didn't reach for the pen. Not yet for now.
Zeyu watched her for a moment, then quietly picked up the clipboard and set it down on the corner of the desk — within reach, but without pressure.
"It's okay," he said, voice steady. "Take your time. You don't have to decide everything today."
He didn't look disappointed. Just patient. And somehow, that made it harder and easier all at once. But Ruolin didn't touch the form. Her head was still too occupied with the thought that she was indeed, sick.
Instead she stood slowly, smoothing the fabric of her skirt as if the motion might steady her.
"Thank you," she murmured, softer this time. Not looking directly at him.
Zeyu only nodded, the quiet understanding in his eyes saying more than words could.
She stepped out into the hallway with the clipboard still on the desk behind her, unsigned. Not because she didn't trust him. But because everything was still… too much.
~×~
As she stepped back into the hallway, the world didn't shatter. There were no tears. No collapse. Just the quiet echo of her footsteps against polished floors and the low hum of lights overhead. Her heart kept beating — a little strained, a little slower — but still hers.
By the time she stepped outside, the late afternoon light had deepened. The breeze met her again, gentler now, carrying the faint scent of rain and pavement. Shadows stretched long across the sidewalk. The sky above was soft, brushed with streaks of gold and silver.
It was too beautiful a late day for such heavy news.
"Heart failure..." she whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it disappear.
And then she walked — not quickly, not slowly, but with the quiet determination of someone still learning how to carry something invisible and heavy inside her chest.
The world hadn't ended. But it had shifted. And step by step, she moved forward, not because everything was okay, but because she was still here, and the day wasn't over yet.