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1093 Words
He went to the hospital one morning for no apparent reason.
Not an emergency.
Not severe pain.
It's just a feeling that lasts longer than usual — the one that makes people think they should check, but also mild enough to convince themselves that they can wait longer.
The automatic gate opens at the right time.
No one looked at him when he walked in.
No one asked if he needed help.
The smell of disinfection is so familiar that it is no longer unpleasant. It's like the smell of places designed to leave no trace. Clean. Neutral. There is no history.
The signboard hangs high, the letters are clear, the arrows are straight. He stood for a while to read, even though he actually knew where he needed to go. The patient reception area is on the ground floor. Counter number three.
A screen lit up when he approached.
Please get the order number.
He touched his hand. A small piece of paper slipped out, printed a series of numbers and a thin line of text: Please wait.
He looked around. The waiting room is not crowded. A few people sat scattered, each in their own space. No one talks. No one looks at each other long enough to form a curiosity. Everyone is waiting, but there is no feeling of waiting for anything specific.
A middle-aged woman sat two chairs away from him, her hands on her knees, her back straight. A young man looked at the phone, his fingers running up and down as if looking for something that had been lost for a long time. An old man fell asleep, breathing evenly.
The dial screen flashes. There is no rushing sound. Just a small beep, enough for the person to realize that it was their turn, but not enough to disturb others.
He looked at his number.
There are a few more rounds.
He sat down. The plastic chair is hard, cold, designed so that no one wants to sit for too long, but also not so uncomfortable that they have to stand up. Everything here is just right.
Time passes without a sign. No one announced late. No one apologized. No one explained. The clock hanging on the wall runs slowly and accurately. The second hand moves evenly, without haste, without hesitation.
He thought about what he would say when he was called. Not to exaggerate, but to present correctly. At what level is a feeling considered remarkable? To what extent does it become a problem that needs to be noted?
I'm not sure.
When his number appeared, he stood up immediately. Don't want to be late. Don't want to cause another unnecessary step.
There are no queues at counter number three. The reception staff looked at the screen in front of him more than he looked at him. She asked for name, date of birth, ID number. The voice is even, emotionless, not cold.
He answered each question one by one.
She typed the key.
Stop.
Continue typing.
"The reason for coming to the examination?" She asked.
He opened his mouth, then stopped for a moment. Not because I don't know what to say, but because I'm considering how reasonable it is to say.
"Nothing serious," he said first, as a safe opening. "It's just... prolonged."
She nodded, as if she had heard this sentence many times. Maybe you did.
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes," he said. Then added, "But not much."
"Does it affect daily activities?"
He thought of the small things that had changed, the things he had adjusted without naming. He thought about waking up a little earlier, taking a little longer break, skipping some unnecessary things.
"Not significant," he said.
She typed a few more lines.
"Wait a minute," she said. "The inside will call."
He got his documents back. There are no abnormal signs. No signs of anxiety. Everything went exactly the way it should.
The waiting area inside is quieter. The chairs are lined up. The light is white, does not create a shadow. On the wall hangs a poster about self-monitoring health, signs to be aware of, safety numbers.
He skimmed it. There was nothing in it that startled him.
He sat down.
This time, there is no sequence number. Just waiting.
A nurse passed by, holding a file. She didn't look at him. Not because of ignoring, but because there is no reason to look. I haven't been called yet. Not yet classified. Not yet belonging to any specific stream.
Time goes on.
He realized that the initial feeling — which brought him here — did not get stronger. But it didn't disappear either. It was there, stable, like a line that his body was getting used to.
One person was called to the clinic. Another person was taken to be tested. The movements are smooth, without friction. The system works well.
He wondered if it was really necessary for him to sit here. But that question comes too late to come back, and too early to go further.
A doctor appeared at the door, calling another person's name. His voice is calm. Nothing in the facial expression shows that what is coming is important.
He looked down at his hands. No shaking. No sweat. There is no obvious sign that his body is asking for immediate attention.
A part of him felt relieved because of that.
Another part began to doubt.
If there is no sign, where is this classified?
Another nurse walked by, stopped for a second to check the list on the tablet. She looked at him, then looked back at the screen. There is no confirmation. There is no rejection. Just keep walking.
He began to understand that here, everything does not disappear. They are just placed in their right place.
And there are places — even if they exist — that are not qualified to be a destination.
He sat with his back straighter, as if the posture could help him better fit a certain criterion. He reminded himself that he had come to the right place, done the right process, answered the right question.
There is no reason to worry.
A gentle announcement sounded: Please keep order and wait for instructions.
No one is talking, so no one needs to keep order anymore.
I wait.
And while waiting, he began to realize something very small, very difficult to name:
Here, being handled does not depend on your presence, but on whether you are considered necessary.
I'm not sure which group I belong to.
- Writer
