She hummed, thoughtful, closing the distance. “You don’t have to speak. Just nod for yes, shake your head for no. Understood?”
I nodded, slow, deliberate.
“Do you have chronic dysphonia—difficulty producing voice?”
Nod.
“Does phonation trigger hemoptysis—coughing blood—every time you attempt it?”
Shake.
“Good. We can manage that.” She glanced at Ruslan. “The clinic is fully booked tonight. Bring her back tomorrow evening—five o’clock. I’ll make sure she’s seen immediately. Full laryngoscopy, vocal cord assessment, possibly biopsy if needed.”
Ruslan gave a single, sharp nod. No words. No expression. Just acknowledgment.
“She can come alone,” the doctor added gently, as though reading both our tension. “You don’t have to escort her. I’ll handle everything.”
Ruslan inclined his head, a subtle, nearly imperceptible acknowledgment. Nothing more. No relief. No thanks. Only a careful assessment of the situation.
I exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly, but my chest still ached with every heartbeat.
For the first time that night, I allowed myself a flicker of hope. The hospital wasn’t a trap. Maybe, just maybe, I could finally have a moment to prove the truth.
But even as that thought flared, Ruslan’s storm-gray gaze never left me.
We turned to leave.
“Ruslan.”
He paused mid-step.
The doctor stood a few feet behind us, hands folded in the pockets of her coat, expression professional but weighted with something personal.
The floodlights washed her face pale, drawing soft shadows beneath her eyes.
“I’ll send over a starter course of anti-inflammatory medication and a topical anesthetic spray tonight,” she said.“It should stabilize her enough to speak more comfortably by morning.”
Another nod. Sharp. Final.
She hesitated, clearly debating whether to say what pressed at the edge of her mouth.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
The air shifted.
Ruslan didn’t turn around at first. His shoulders went rigid, as if someone had driven steel rods through his spine.
“Not now.”
“So when?” Her voice softened, the clinical edge falling away. Old hurt bled through, unmistakable. “You can’t keep avoiding me forever. Your mother—”
“Shut it.”
He moved so fast I barely registered it—two long strides and suddenly he was towering over her, close enough that I instinctively recoiled.
Rage rolled off him in visible waves.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. The cords in his neck stood out like cables under strain, jaw locked so tight I thought his teeth might crack.
