The doctor studies his chart while I sit across from him, trying to hold my breath steady. He tells me my levels are off, asks about stress, diet, sleep. I answer the way people answer when they are trying to hide the parts of themselves that hurt. I tell him I am fine, just tired. I tell him work has been heavy. I tell him I sleep, at least sometimes.
His pen moves across the page. The soft scratch of ink fills the room. I look at the wall clock. It reads 12:15. Her lunch break. She used to ring me at this exact time. I used to look forward to it.
He keeps talking about blood pressure and lifestyle. I nod, but my hands curl into my palms beneath the table. Her hands were soft, even when she was angry. Mine feel tight now, as if holding on to something that is no longer there.
He asks if I have someone to talk to. A therapist, perhaps. I tell him I already talk to someone. It is a lie. I only talk to her picture, to the voice notes I cannot bring myself to delete, to the quiet rooms that hold her laughter better than I do now.
We schedule more tests. I agree to everything because it is easier than explaining the truth. When I leave, the receptionist smiles. I return one that feels like it was borrowed from someone else.
Outside, the air is thick. It presses on my chest like a reminder that something inside me has shifted and refuses to settle. Maybe he is right. Maybe it is stress. Maybe it is something else entirely.
I reach the car and sit for a while before starting the engine. Her scarf is still on the passenger seat, exactly where she left it. Lavender. It still carries her scent. It fills the small space more than my own presence does.
I pick up my phone. My thumb hesitates, but habit wins. I press play on her last voice note. Her voice fills the silence, clear and warm.
I am sorry. I have to go. I will call you back later.
She never did.