CHAPTER — The Diagnosis
The hospital lobby was crowded that morning.
Voices overlapped one another.
Footsteps echoed across the polished floor.
Announcements repeated from the speakers above.
Everything felt normal.
Too normal.
Aiman stood near the registration counter, holding a small white card between his fingers. His name was printed clearly on it.
He stared at the number written below it.
Queue number 247.
He didn't remember taking the card.
He didn't remember walking to the counter.
He only remembered the doctor from yesterday telling him to come back today.
"Come tomorrow morning."
That was all.
Just four simple words.
But those words followed him the entire night.
He barely slept.
He barely ate.
And now he was here.
Waiting.
Watching strangers pass by as if they still had unlimited time.
A mother walked past him holding her child's hand.
An old man argued gently with a nurse about his medicine.
Two teenagers laughed loudly near the vending machine.
Life continued normally for everyone else.
Except him.
"Aiman."
His name echoed again.
This time closer.
A nurse stood beside him.
"It's your turn."
He nodded slowly.
His legs moved before his mind did.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each step toward the consultation room felt heavier than the last.
Room 3.
The door was slightly open.
He knocked once.
"Come in."
The doctor was already seated behind the desk.
A thick file rested in front of him.
Too thick.
Aiman noticed it immediately.
Doctors never needed thick files for small problems.
"Please sit."
Aiman sat down quietly.
The chair felt colder than expected.
The doctor opened the file slowly.
One page.
Another page.
Another page.
The silence between them grew longer.
"How long have you been experiencing the symptoms?" the doctor finally asked.
"A few months," Aiman replied.
"Why didn't you come earlier?"
Aiman smiled faintly.
"I thought it would go away."
The doctor didn't smile back.
Instead, he turned another page.
Then another.
His expression became more careful.
More measured.
More serious.
Aiman watched everything.
The way the doctor paused before speaking.
The way he pressed his lips together.
The way he avoided direct eye contact for a moment.
Sometimes silence spoke louder than explanations.
"There are several findings we need to discuss," the doctor said carefully.
Aiman nodded once.
He already understood.
Not the medical details.
Not the technical terms.
But the direction of the conversation.
The doctor folded his hands together.
"These results are not something we can ignore."
Ignore.
Another heavy word.
"We need further monitoring."
Monitoring.
Another word.
Carefully chosen.
Carefully controlled.
"We also need to prepare for possible complications."
Prepare.
That word again.
It sounded heavier this time.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Not suffocating.
Just smaller.
As if time itself had stepped closer.
"Is it serious?" Aiman asked quietly.
The doctor didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked directly at Aiman for the first time since the conversation began.
"Yes."
Just one word.
But it carried everything.
Aiman nodded slowly.
He didn't ask another question.
Because sometimes asking more questions only confirmed what the heart already knew.
"Treatment is still possible," the doctor continued.
"But timing is important."
Timing.
Another reminder.
Another warning.
"Do you live alone?" the doctor asked.
"Yes."
"Family nearby?"
Aiman hesitated.
Then answered softly.
"No."
"Anyone close to you?"
Alya's name appeared first in his mind.
Then Nadia.
Two names.
Two promises.
Two people who still believed tomorrow would always be there.
Aiman looked down at his hands.
"No."
The answer came out quieter this time.
The doctor studied him carefully.
"You shouldn't face this alone."
Aiman smiled again.
This time the smile stayed longer.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Some things are easier that way."
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
"You need support."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
The words were gentle.
But honest.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, the doctor reached into the file and removed a sealed envelope.
"These are your next appointments," he said softly.
"Please don't miss them."
Aiman accepted the envelope.
It felt heavier than paper should feel.
"When should I come back?" he asked.
"Soon."
Not tomorrow.
Not next month.
Just soon.
That word said enough.
Aiman stood up slowly.
"Thank you, doctor."
Before he reached the door, the doctor spoke again.
"If there is someone important in your life…"
Aiman stopped walking.
"…you should tell them."
He didn't turn around.
Instead, he answered quietly.
"Not yet."
Then he walked out.
The corridor looked exactly the same as before.
Same lights.
Same people.
Same footsteps.
Same voices.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
He walked past the waiting chairs.
Past the pharmacy counter.
Past the elevator.
Until he reached the exit doors.
Sunlight greeted him outside.
Warm.
Bright.
Normal.
Too normal.
His phone vibrated.
One message.
Alya.
Another vibration.
Nadia.
Aiman stared at their names for a long time.
His thumb hovered above the screen.
Then slowly…
he typed.
"I'm at work today."
Send.
Another message followed.
"Don't forget to eat."
Send.
Then another.
"I'll reply later tonight."
Send.
Three lies.
Three small lies.
To protect two people who still believed he had time.
Aiman locked his phone.
Then looked up at the sky.
For the first time that morning—
he finally understood something clearly.
Time was no longer something he owned.
It was something he had to use carefully now.
Very carefully.
And he already knew exactly how he wanted to spend it.