GUILT
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I pressed my lips into a thin line as I stared at the doctor, watching him go through my medical reports one page after another, my eyes not leaving his hands until he reached the last page—
The one I never let Adithya see.
My fingers curled slightly on my lap, my nails pressing into my skin as a quiet tension settled inside me, not because I didn’t know what was written there—
But because I knew it too well.
This doctor wasn’t just any doctor.
He was a specialist.
A well-known one.
An expensive one.
Far more than the doctor we had visited the last time.
And despite everything happening inside my body, my mind went to the bill.
How high it would be?
How Adithya was going to pay for this?
My chest tightened for a completely different reason.
And then there was him—
This old man sitting in front of me going through the medical reports.
My grandpa’s friend.
The one who had known me since I was a child.
The one who had seen me grow, fall sick, recover, argue, laugh—
And now…
He was acting like a stranger.
Like he didn’t know me at all, because I had walked in here with a man.
He turned to me slowly, his eyes settling on mine with a look that said he already knew everything and then he read the report again.
As if giving me one last chance to speak before he did.
Damn.
The words written there echoed loudly in my head.
Pulmonary hypertension.
Severe.
Progressive.
Reducing life span.
Untreated.
Not because it couldn’t be treated—
But because I chose not to.
Even my brother didn’t know.
No one did.
I shifted my gaze slightly to the side.
Adithya sat there, his posture stiff, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor as if he was staring into something invisible, something only he could see.
He didn’t look at me.
“How long have you been suffering from this?” the doctor asked, his voice calm but his eyes sharp, almost accusing.
“For a few years,” I muttered.
I didn’t even know when exactly it started.
It had just… become a part of me.
“Why were you not taking treatment all these years?” he asked again, this time his voice carrying a clear edge.
“I don’t want to,” I said nonchalantly, like it was the simplest answer in the world.
Because that was always my answer to him.
Because this wasn’t a stranger I was talking to.
This doctor was someone who had tried again and again to make me choose life.
And I had refused.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Adithya turn toward me sharply, his gaze hard.
This man sitting in front of us was not just a doctor.
He was someone who could see through me. Someone who tried to heal my childhood trauma.
“When did you get married?” he asked suddenly, flipping another page as if it was just another routine question.
I looked at him immediately.
“That’s none of your business,” I said, my tone flat, my eyes steady on his.
Adithya looked between us, clearly confused, trying to understand what was happening, what kind of conversation this was, what kind of history existed here that he didn’t know about.
The doctor sighed softly, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said.
“Just jot down your expensive medications on that paper with your crooked handwriting,” I said casually, leaning back into the chair as if this was nothing more than a routine visit, as if my body wasn’t slowly betraying me from the inside. “I can’t sit here the whole day.”
My voice carried that same careless edge, the same indifference I had perfected over the years.
Without breaking that calm composure, he turned his head toward Adithya.
“Can you please wait outside?” he asked politely, his tone respectful but leaving no space for refusal.
The room fell into a brief silence.
Adithya stood up slowly, nodding his head, but before he moved, his eyes came to me.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, the words slipping out of my mouth with practiced ease,
He just kept looking at me for a second longer, like he didn’t believe a single word I said but didn’t know how to challenge it either.
Then he gave a small nod…
And walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
“Mr. Rajmohan, I don’t want to hear any of your life lessons… I know I’m dying,” I said, my voice unusually calm, almost detached, as my fingers kept playing with the paperweight on his table, rolling it slowly.
He looked at me, not with surprise, not with sympathy—
But with a quiet anger that came from knowing me for far too long.
“Do you even understand how serious your condition has become now?” he asked, his voice firm, each word carrying weight. “Why are you so determined to destroy yourself like this? Your grandfather… he won’t be at peace even after dying, seeing you like this.”
My fingers stilled for a second.
I leaned back in the chair, letting out a dry, hollow chuckle that didn’t carry even a trace of humor.
“I miss him so much, so I thought I’d just go and meet him there.”
Even I couldn’t tell if I was joking… or telling the truth.
“Does that poor man even know about your condition?” he asked, his gaze shifting toward the door through which Adithya had just walked out.
My jaw tightened slightly.
“Is burdening Vihaan not enough?” I asked quietly, averting my gaze from him.
“Does even Vihaan know about this?” he asked again, this time more carefully.
“Naah…” I muttered.
And then I looked back at him, raising my hand slightly, my index finger pointing at him in warning.
“And you—” I said, my voice dropping, losing that careless edge for just a second, “you shouldn’t tell him.”
“I am going to tell this to your husband at least,” he said, his voice firm now, like he had already made the decision.
“Say it,” I replied, my tone careless, almost dismissive. “He won’t care.”
His expression hardened, his patience finally snapping.
“What kind of life are you even living?” he asked, his voice rising with anger now, no longer trying to stay calm.
“I stopped living the moment my own father did that to me, and you have the audacity to ask me that question… even after knowing what I went through in my childhood?”
My teeth clenched as the words left me, the irritation not just at him—but at everything, at every memory that refused to stay quiet.
Before I could speak again, a cough tore through me again.
My hand flew to my chest as a burning sensation spread inside, making it hard to even take a proper breath, my body slightly bending forward as I tried to steady myself.
For a moment even speaking felt impossible.
“See?” he said, his voice cutting through, no longer calm, no longer patient. “Your condition is getting worse.”
“I think you should be hospitalized,” he said, his voice firm now, leaving no space for argument.
I rolled my eyes immediately, the irritation rising faster than the weakness in my body, as I stood up and snatched the reports from his hands without waiting for another word.
“Fuck you and your fucking hospitals,” I snapped, my voice sharp, laced with anger that had nowhere else to go.
I turned toward the door, my steps quick.
“Stop running away from this,” he said behind me, his voice cutting through the room.
I didn’t stop.
“You will die,” he added.
That made me pause.
Just for a second.
My hand tightened around the reports, the paper crumpling slightly under my grip as I closed my eyes in frustration, a breath escaping me—uneven, tired.
“I already know that,” I muttered, my voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier sharpness.
I stopped midway and turned back, walking toward him again with a steady pace that hid the slight weakness in my legs.
“Quickly write down some medicines… so that my husband won’t doubt me,” I said, my voice calm, almost practical, like I was discussing something normal.
He took out a paper and began writing, his pen moving slowly, reluctantly, as if every word he wrote went against what he actually wanted to say.
“Viyana—” he started again.
“No,” I cut him off immediately.
"I am tired of seeing you destroy yourself." He exhaled quietly but continued writing.
I watched him for a second before speaking again, my tone lowering just a little.
“What can I say to him about this condition?” I asked, my gaze shifting away from his face, fixing somewhere on the table instead. “Give me something… believable.”
His pen stopped moving.
“And you’re asking me to help you lie?” he asked slowly, disbelief clear in his voice.
“Yes.”
“You can tell him it’s a severe lung infection,” he said finally, his tone unwilling, almost forced. “Something that needs medication and rest… but not immediately life-threatening.”
I nodded.
“Take the medicines regularly,” he added, his voice firm again, sliding the paper toward me. “Even if you don’t want treatment… at least don’t make it worse.”
I took the paper without replying.
I looked at him one last time, my expression unreadable, my voice carrying that same unsettling calm.
“Is my life span reducing successfully?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
He just stared at me—long and hard—like he had finally run out of words, like nothing he said would ever reach me anymore.
“Please start your treatment,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, but heavier than before. “It’s getting serious.”
I didn’t respond.
“Bye, oldie,” I said instead, turning away before he could say anything else.
I opened the door and stepped out.
Adithya stood up instantly the moment he saw me, like he had been waiting for that door to open the entire time.
“Told you I was fine,” I said, forcing a small smile as I handed him the prescription.
“What happened… you’re okay, right?” he asked, his voice tight, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for something I wasn’t showing.
“Lung infection,” I said lightly, lifting my hand in a small thumbs-up. “Completely not life-threatening.”
For a moment, he just looked at me.
Then he let out a breath.
His shoulders relaxed slightly as he looked down at the prescription, reading it carefully, like he didn’t fully trust the words unless he saw them himself.
“Do you people know each other?” he asked after a moment, glancing back at me.
“Yes,” I said casually. “That oldie is my grandpa’s friend. He built this hospital with the help of my grandpa.”
He nodded slowly.
“Come… let’s go,” he said, turning and starting to walk ahead.
I followed him quietly.
“Do some breathing exercises every day,” he muttered, looking back at me.
I nodded.
A small, uncomfortable weight settled inside me.
Guilt.