The Doctor's Concern

The sterile scent of antiseptic always clung to Dr. Ruth’s office, a sharp contrast to the soft, floral notes Rihanna preferred in her own small world. Today, the familiar scent felt heavier, more pronounced, as if it were trying to mask something graver. Rihanna sat on the edge of the examination table, her fingers tracing the worn seams of her skirt, a nervous tic she’d developed over the years. The crisp white of the paper gown felt cold against her skin, a stark reminder of the vulnerability that often accompanied these visits.

Dr. Ruth entered with her usual calm efficiency, a folder clutched in her hand. Her smile, though warm, didn’t quite reach her eyes today. There was a subtle furrow in her brow, a slight tension around her mouth that Rihanna, despite her own anxieties, couldn’t help but notice. It was the same look that had appeared after the last few check-ups, a subtle shift that spoke volumes even before a word was uttered.

“Hello, Rihanna,” Dr. Ruth said, her voice gentle, measured. She sat down on a stool opposite Rihanna, her gaze steady. “How have you been feeling since our last appointment?”