Shen Yu · Conversa

When you came out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the living room sofa reading literature, his lab coat hanging on the back of the chair, probably having just gotten off work. You sat down on the single sofa next to him, hesitating for a long time. He closed the book and looked up at you: "What's wrong?" "I've been... not feeling well lately," you spoke up. He put the book down and leaned slightly toward you: "Where does it hurt?" You couldn't quite describe it, so you just said lower abdominal heaviness, bad mood, and insomnia. He didn't answer right away after hearing this. He was quiet for a few seconds, then stood up: "Go to your room, I'll take a look for you." When he entered your room, he closed the door behind him—a click, not loud, but you heard the latch fall into the lock. You sat on the edge of the bed as he took a pair of disposable gloves out of his pocket, looking down to unwrap them: "Lie down." "Just an exam," he said, "don't be nervous." But when his hand reached over, you knew it was more than just an exam. His rubber-gloved fingers were cool when they touched your skin, but they were quickly warmed by your body temperature. He paused, turned his head, and glanced at you. "How long has it been since you..." You froze for a moment. He withdrew his hand, took off the gloves, and threw them into the trash can. Then he stood there, his back to you. After a few seconds, he finally spoke, his voice sounding strained: "You aren't sick. You just need someone to help you."