Today was no different from any other morning Aria had experienced—a familiar, mundane routine. But somehow, this morning felt different. Special. And the reason sat right across from her.
With a stethoscope draped around his neck and a pristine white coat bearing the name Dr. Ichiro — Neurosurgeon, he looked every bit the man who had haunted her dreams for years. His refined features were almost ethereal, and the way his glasses perched on his nose only made him look more composed—more unattainable.
His skin was whiter than snow, the kind of pale that made Aria imagine what he might look like if he ever blushed. She was certain he'd turn as red as a tomato, the color painting across his cheekbones like a confession of shyness—and just the thought of that made her heart skip a beat. She dared to picture kissing him and watching that beautiful, stoic face transform in color and emotion.
His hands were just as elegant—long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, every movement precise, delicate. Hands so perfect they could put a sculptor's work to shame. Aria often imagined what those hands would look like with a wedding ring—her wedding ring—adorning his finger. A silent proclamation to the world: This man belongs to me.
Her eyes wandered to the exposed collarbone peeking from beneath his shirt. Sharp and defined, it was an invitation she was far too tempted by. She bit her lower lip at the thought of kissing it, of leaving invisible marks of love where no one else could see. And his lips—she wouldn't even let her mind go there. It was dangerous to imagine the things she longed to do to them.
Then there were his eyes—green, calm, mesmerizing. One look and all the noise inside her head would fade. Just like that, her wildest thoughts silenced.
But the fantasy shattered when his deep, velvety voice cut through her daydream.
"Aria, can you for once stop making trouble? There are real patients who need help—and you're wasting their time."
She smirked, unfazed. "How do you know I'm not sick? I stood in line like everyone else. I even got a serial, Doctor."
He raised an eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed. "Alright then, Miss Patient. What seems to be the problem?"
She leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough to make it intimate. "Well, Doctor... I get dizzy, my heart races uncontrollably, and my mind gets clouded every time I see a certain man. He's all I think about. Can you cure that?"
Ichiro blinked once before sighing. "I can't cure that. But I can refer you to someone who might be able to." He scribbled something quickly and handed her a referral to Psychiatry, calling the nurse for the next patient.
Aria took the paper with her most radiant smile, hoping—foolishly—that maybe, just maybe, it would melt even a sliver of his icy heart.
But deep down, in the hollow part of her chest, she already knew the truth.
It would never happen.
Still, she smiled anyway. "See you again, Doctor."
She stood and left, but her heart stayed behind.
Aria had loved Ichiro for as long as she could remember. She was twelve when it began—back when Ichiro, her older brother Ken's friend, was already a brilliant, disciplined 22-year-old med student. She could still remember the first day she saw him: the way his smile lit up the room, the way he carried himself like someone with a purpose. Her heart had skipped then, too.
At first, it was just a crush—a harmless, girlish secret. But by fifteen, it had turned into something deeper. And from that day forward, she loved him fiercely and silently.
Ten years had passed since.
Ten years of loving him in quiet corners and loud silences. Of watching him live his life while she stood on the sidelines. Of growing from a silly little girl into a woman who still carried a flame no wind could extinguish.
But the ride had always been one-sided.
Ichiro had never been on it.
To him, she was Ken's little sister. A child. A shadow. Never a woman. Never someone to fall in love with.
Aria had always known her love would remain unrequited. His heart had never been hers to claim. It belonged to someone else—a woman named Amy, the love of his life, the one who held his heart gently and completely since high school.
And yet, Aria loved him. Every piece of him. Even the part that belonged to someone else.
She loved the way Ichiro loved Amy—with loyalty, light, and devotion. She adored the way his eyes softened when he spoke of her, the warmth that entered his voice.
She knew—painfully so—that he would never look at her the way he looked at Amy.
But her love remained unchanged.
Because love, real love, doesn't always ask to be returned. Sometimes it simply stays—quiet, faithful, and forever.