So… how did it go with the therapist?" asked Arthur — Andre's longtime friend, and a skilled psychiatrist and psychologist.
Andre leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant. "Yeah, it was okay… but I won't be going back."
Arthur frowned. "Why not? It seemed like things were finally going well."
"No, they weren't — not really," Andre replied, his tone flat. "I just pretended to be fine. But you know what? I'll just focus more on work. That's enough. I've been doing fine these past few years anyway."
Arthur's voice softened, but there was firmness behind it. "Andre, you and I both know you're not fine. You're—"
Before he could finish, the door to the on-call room swung open. Molly, a senior consultant, stepped in with a tablet in hand.
"Who's not fine?" she asked, glancing between them.
Arthur straightened, forcing a smile. "Oh—uh, just a patient we were talking about. You know… patient stuff."
"Yeah," Andre added quickly, his voice steady but his eyes betraying him. "Just a patient."
"Oh. Alright then." Molly gave a polite nod and took a seat at the desk, scrolling through her notes.
The two men exchanged a silent look — half relief, half unspoken understanding.
To ease the tension, Arthur cleared his throat. "So… did you hear about that heavy storm last week?"
Andre gave a faint, distracted smile. "Yeah. Hard to miss."
Just then, a nurse entered the room, handing Andre a stack of files. "These are your schedules for the next round, Dr. Andre."
"Thank you," he murmured, taking the files. His hands lingered on them a moment too long — as if burying himself in work might drown out the ghosts still whispering inside him.