The room was stark white, the kind of minimalist decor that screams formality. I sat there, clutching the beige folder marked with a simple « D. Trump. » The air conditioner hummed quietly, a backdrop to the silence that had fallen after the last words spoken by Dr. Reynolds. « The results, as you can see, are conclusive, » she had said, her finger tapping on the line that changed everything. My eyes traced the letters again and again, trying to make sense of what I was reading. « How did this go unnoticed? » I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Dr. Reynolds, a woman in her mid-forties with a reputation for being unflappable, adjusted her glasses and sighed. « These things can be elusive, » she replied, avoiding my gaze. The gravity of her words hung in the room like a dense fog. I glanced at my phone, the screen lit up with unanswered calls from numbers I didn’t recognize. My mind spun with questions, each one more urgent than the last. What did this mean for him? For us?
I turned back to the folder, flipping through the pages filled with medical jargon and numbers that seemed to blur together. The date, highlighted in yellow, stood out: October 15th. It was just last week when the tests were conducted, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. The room’s quiet was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. A young nurse peeked in, her smile rehearsed. « Dr. Reynolds, your next appointment is ready. »
« I’ll be right there, » she replied, her eyes flicking back to me, full of an unspoken apology. I nodded, understanding the unspoken words between us. This was just another day in her life, another case to manage, another set of results to discuss. But for me, this was everything. As she left, I remained seated, the folder lying open on the table, a testament to the new reality I was being forced to confront.
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