Wrong door Right silence
1013 Words
POV : Reader
"I know, man. I’m here—just like you wanted. What else do you want now?"
His voice was sharp, edged with frustration, He parked outside the hospital, gripping the steering wheel like it had done something to him.
He didn’t want to be here. But Ezra had pushed him to the edge.
The therapist.
The damn therapist.
Ezra (on call): "I’m saying this for your own good. The championship’s only three months away. You really wanna walk in there limping? Think that’ll scare your opponent?"
He let out a humorless laugh, staring at the hospital entrance.
"What scares them is me. Not a perfect walk."
Still, he knew Ezra wasn’t wrong. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes and shoved the door open, stepping out like he was walking into a battlefield, not a clinic.
He stepped out, slamming the car door harder than necessary. The sharp thud echoed in the parking lot. His eyes drifted up to the towering luxury hospital—glass walls, clean lines, too bright for his mood. He hated places like this. Still, he'd been sent here against his will, and he knew better than to have Ezra mad at him again.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to the message. The name of the physical therapist glared back at him.
“Let’s just get this mess over with,” he muttered, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
He glanced around, expression tightening as he moved toward the glass doors.
“Why the hell is this place so big?” he muttered. “Where am I supposed to find him now?”
He pushed a door open first doc room he find ,annoyed, without knocking---- misreading psychologist as physical therapist in rush He paused in the doorway, unsure.
“You the therapist?” he asked flatly.
Without looking up, she replied calmly, “Technically.”
He limped in and sat across from her. The room was too peaceful. He fidgeted.
She finally glanced at him, taking in the bruised knuckles, guarded eyes, the stiff way he held himself — but said nothing.
“You don’t talk much,” he muttered.
“You don’t either,” she said softly.
A beat of silence passed.
He nodded toward her sketchpad. “What’s that supposed to be?”
She turned it slightly. The drawing was abstract, stormy.
“A mind on a bad day.”
He scoffed lightly. “Guess you’ve seen a lot of those.”
She met his eyes. “Have one of your own today?”
He didn’t answer — but he didn’t leave either.
Just then, a nurse peeked in, confused.
“Mr.Rowan ? Your physical therapist is waiting in Room 12.”
He blinked. Then looked at the woman across from him.
“…You’re not the one I booked with?”
She smiled gently. “No. But maybe I’m the one you needed.”
He looked at the open door, then back at her. Something about her—calm, unreadable—pulled at him, made him want to sit just a minute more.
“So... you gonna report that I barged in?”
She didn’t look up from her book.
“Only if you scream or flip the chair.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That a challenge?”
This time, she looked up—really looked. The faintest flicker of a smirk played at the corner of her lips.
“Not unless you’re prepared to lose.”
He let out a quiet breath—half a scoff, half a bitter laugh—but it died quickly, swallowed by something heavier.
“I don’t lose easily,” he said, standing slowly, voice low and tight.
He took a step toward the door, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“And I don’t give up easy either.”
Her gaze followed him, sharp and unreadable.
“You say that like it’s something to be proud of,” she said, calm but cutting. “But sometimes, the things we hold onto are the very things that break us.”
Their eyes locked—hers steady, almost too knowing; his guarded, but flaring with something raw.
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle.
“As if you’d understand that.”
And without waiting for her reply, he pulled the door open and walked out.
She stared after him, expression unchanged—but her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her sketchpad.
---
He barged into the next room, the door hitting the wall behind him. A middle-aged man in scrubs looked up from a clipboard, clearly startled.
“Now are you the therapist, or not either?” he snapped, voice laced with leftover irritation.
The man blinked, pausing mid-note.
“I... am the therapist,” he said cautiously.
He squinted, frustrated.
“Physical?! Or the psycho one?”
The man stared at him for a moment, then adjusted his glasses, looking at him like he might need both.
“Physical,” he said slowly. “Room 12. You finally made it.”
“Finally,” he muttered under his breath, limping inside. “You people seriously need better signs.”
The man watched him sit, still eyeing him like a warning label.
“Rough morning?”
He gave a dry snort.
“You have no idea.”
---
- Writer
