The ceiling above my bed hasn't changed.
Same pale white, same faint crack near the corner that looks like a crooked branch if you stare at it long enough. I've been in this room long enough to memorize every detail, long enough to know which beeping sound belongs to me and which one belongs to the patient next door. At twenty-three, this hospital feels less like a place I visit and more like a place that knows me.
My mother sits beside my bed, flipping through my modules with a familiar frown. Her reading glasses rest low on her nose, and she keeps pushing them up every few seconds like she might lose them if she doesn't. I watch her more than the pages she's holding.
"You should rest," she says for the third time, not looking at me. "Your body needs it."
"I already slept," I answer, shifting slightly so the wires don't pull. "Besides, I have an exam next week."
She sighs, finally meeting my eyes. There's worry there, always has been. I think it lives in her now, permanently etched into her face because of me. "You can take a break from school, Tirawat. One semester won't change your life."
I smile at her, the kind of smile I've practiced for years. "It will. I like what I'm studying."
Psychology. Funny choice for someone who spends more time being studied than studying others. People often ask me why I chose it, their voices careful, like the answer might break me. The truth is simple. I grew up watching fear, hope, denial, and love pass through hospital rooms. I learned early that sickness doesn't just hurt the body. It changes the mind, too.
Understanding that feels important to me.
My mother closes the folder and sets it aside. "You've always been stubborn," she says softly. "Just like your father."
"I learned from the best," I reply.
For a moment, things feel almost normal. Just a mother and her son talking about school, about life, about plans that may or may not happen. The machines continue their steady rhythm, my quiet reminder that my heart still needs help remembering how to beat properly.
Then there's a knock on the door.
A nurse steps inside, her expression polite but hesitant. I know that look. I've seen it too many times. It's the look people wear when they're about to say something that will change the shape of your day.
"Mrs. Mongkolsak," she says gently. "May I speak with you and your son for a moment?"
My mother straightens, already tense. "Of course."
The nurse hesitates again before continuing. "We received news this morning. Doctor Chanin passed away."
The words hang in the air, heavy and unreal.
Passed away.
For a second, I don't understand them. They don't connect to anything inside my head. Doctor Chanin doesn't belong to phrases like that. He belongs to calm voices, steady hands, and promises whispered to scared children in hospital beds.
I blink once. Then twice.
"Oh," my mother breathes, pressing a hand to her mouth. "When?"
"Last night," the nurse answers quietly. "Peacefully. Due to old age."
Old age. The most reasonable explanation, and somehow the most painful one.
I nod, even though my chest feels tight. Not the dangerous kind of tightness, not the one that sets off alarms. This one is different. This one hurts in a way machines can't measure.
"I see," I say. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, distant and flat. "Thank you for telling us."
The nurse offers a small bow and leaves the room.
Silence rushes in to take her place.
My mother reaches for my hand immediately. Her grip is warm, grounding. "Tirawat—"
"I'm okay," I interrupt automatically. The words come out before I can stop them. Years of practice. Years of saying the same thing even when it isn't true.
But this time, my chest aches anyway.
Doctor Chanin is gone.
The doctor who explained my heart with drawings. The man who never spoke to me like I was fragile glass. The one who promised, over and over, that I wasn't alone in this.
I swallow hard, staring at the ceiling crack again. It doesn't look like a branch today. It looks like a break.
"I wanted him to see me graduate," I say quietly.
My mother squeezes my hand tighter. I feel her trembling now. "He would be so proud of you," she whispers. "He always talked about how smart you were."
I let out a shaky breath. I didn't even realize I was holding it in.
People come and go in hospitals all the time. Doctors rotate. Nurses change shifts. Patients disappear from rooms overnight. I've learned not to get too attached. But Doctor Chanin wasn't just a doctor. He was a constant in a life full of uncertainty.
Losing him feels like losing a part of my childhood.
I close my eyes, memories rushing in uninvited. His calm voice. His reassuring smile. The way he always asked about my dreams, not just my symptoms. I thought he would always be there, waiting in some quiet office, ready to check my heart whenever it failed me again.
I was wrong.
My mother brushes my hair back gently, the way she used to when I was younger. "It's okay to be sad," she says. "You don't have to be strong all the time."
I nod, my throat too tight to answer. A tear slips out anyway, trailing down the side of my face. I don't wipe it away.
For once, I let myself feel the loss.
Somewhere in this hospital, a chapter has ended. I don't know who will take his place yet. I don't know what kind of doctor they'll be, or what kind of future is waiting for me now.
All I know is that the man who taught me to trust doctors, to trust hope, is gone.
And for the first time in a long while, my heart hurts for reasons no scan can explain.