"𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖔𝖚𝖑"

VII

Morana's point of view:

Hospitals. They all have that same smell. It's a mix of antiseptic, stale air, and misery. The kind of scent that makes you feel like something's already gone wrong, even if you're just there for a check-up.

The hospital in town, though? Oh, it wasn't your run-of-the-mill depressing medical facility. No, this place was lavish. Polished floors that gleamed like mirrors, walls painted in calming shades of cream and pastel blue, and furniture so modern it looked like it belonged in a Scandinavian design catalog. If hospitals had personalities, this one was trying way too hard to be approachable.

I sat in the waiting room, feeling as out of place as I probably looked. My jeans were ripped at the knees, and my black tank top clung just enough to show off my figure without looking like I was trying too hard. Lola's fur still clung to the fabric no matter how many times I brushed it off. I'd tied my curly hair back into a low ponytail to keep it out of my face, but a few strands had escaped because my hair didn't care about my plans.

I tapped my foot against the shiny tile floor, glancing around at the other patients. Most of them were older, the kind of people who actually liked being told to "take it easy." Me? Not so much.

The nurse finally called my name, and I followed her through a maze of hallways that all looked the same. The exam room was just as fancy as the rest of the building—spotless counters, sleek monitors, and equipment that probably cost more than my entire life.

Then he walked in.

"Miss Morana," he greeted, his accent smooth and Italian, with just a hint of something else I couldn't place.

Dr. Ricci looked like he'd stepped out of a medical drama—tall, with dark hair that was neatly combed but still had that "effortless" vibe. His white coat was perfectly tailored, and his tie didn't even have a wrinkle. Fantastic. My new cardiologist was both competent and intimidatingly polished.

"You can just call me Morana," I said, leaning back on the exam table. "The 'Miss' part makes me feel old."

He smiled faintly, glancing at his tablet. "Very well, Morana. I've reviewed your records. Your condition is, as you know, delicate. A congenital defect that weakens the heart muscle. It's impressive you've managed so well."

"Impressive?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You make it sound like I should've exploded by now."

Dr. Ricci chuckled softly. "Not quite. But it does mean we need to monitor you closely. Stress, overexertion, even poor diet—any of these could cause complications."

I groaned internally. I knew what was coming next.

He picked up a sleek, boxy device from the counter and held it out to me. "This is a heart rate monitor. You wear it on your wrist. It tracks your pulse and alerts you if there's a significant drop or spike."

I stared at the device like it was a snake. "Yeah, I've had one of those before. Didn't love it."

"Why?" he asked, his tone curious but firm.

"Because it's like wearing a flashing neon sign that says, 'Look at me, I'm fragile.'"

He didn't laugh. Doctors never found me as funny as I thought I was.

"This is not about appearances," he said, placing the monitor on the counter next to me. "It's about safety. Your heart is under more strain than most. A sudden increase or decrease in heart rate could be dangerous."

I rolled my eyes but took the watch anyway. It was sleek and black, the kind of thing I wouldn't mind wearing if it didn't feel like a leash.

"Fine," I muttered, strapping it onto my wrist. The display lit up, showing my pulse in glowing numbers. "But if it starts buzzing every time I climb a flight of stairs, I'm throwing it out a window."

"That would not be wise," Dr. Ricci said dryly, scrolling through his tablet.

Then came the next bombshell.

"We also need to discuss your diet," he said, looking up at me.

"My diet?" I repeated, already bracing myself.

"Yes. No more fast food, fried food, or heavily processed snacks. You need to focus on lean proteins, vegetables, whole grains—"

"No pizza?" I interrupted, horrified.

"Occasionally," he allowed. "But not as a regular part of your diet."

I stared at him, my jaw slack. "So, basically, you want me to live on sadness and lettuce."

"Healthy eating is not punishment, Morana," he said, clearly unimpressed by my dramatics.

"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You don't look like someone who's ever craved a burger at midnight."

He ignored that and handed me a sheet of paper filled with diet recommendations. "I'll need to see you again in two weeks to review your progress."

"Can't wait," I said, stuffing the paper into my bag without looking at it.

Dr. Ricci stood and reached out his hand. "Take care of yourself, Morana. You're young, but your condition is serious. No unnecessary risks."

"Yeah, yeah. No stress, no fun, no fried food. Got it," I said, shaking his hand.

The nurse led me back through the maze of hallways, and I couldn't help but glance at the monitor on my wrist. The numbers blinked steadily, a constant reminder that I wasn't like everyone else.

By the time I stepped outside, the afternoon sun was warm on my skin, and the faint smell of coffee wafted from a nearby café. For a moment, I stood there, looking down at the watch.

"Guess we're stuck together now," I muttered.

The watch didn't respond, of course. But if it had, I was sure it would've said something condescending.

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Lots of love,
-M