The medical university smelled of antiseptic and coffee that had been reheated too many times.
Rhea walked through the corridor with her bag slung over one shoulder, steps even, eyes forward. She didn't rush. She didn't linger. She moved like someone who knew exactly where she was going and had no intention of being stopped on the way.
Groups parted without her asking.
Not because she demanded space—
because she carried it.
"Is that her?"
A whisper slipped behind her, soft but deliberate.
"The transfer student."
"She never talks."
Rhea didn't react. She rarely did.
She took her seat in the lecture hall two rows from the front, alone, always the same place. Her notebook opened neatly. Pen aligned. Phone facedown. Prepared.
Around her, conversations continued in hushed tones.
"She's so rude."
"I asked her for notes once. She didn't even look at me."
"She corrected the professor yesterday."
"She was right though."
A pause.
"That's worse."
Rhea wrote as the lecturer spoke, her handwriting precise, clinical. No doodles. No hesitation. She didn't look around when chairs scraped or when someone leaned too close.
She wasn't unfriendly.
She was unavailable.
During lab sessions, she worked alone unless assigned otherwise. Gloves snapped on cleanly. Instruments handled with calm confidence that unsettled people who were still nervous about touching anything that resembled a body.
"Can you pass—"
Rhea slid the instrument across without meeting the girl's eyes.
"Thanks," the girl muttered.
Rhea nodded once. That was all.
In the break area, students clustered in groups, laughing too loudly, complaining about workload. Rhea stood by the window, eating quietly, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
"She thinks she's better than everyone," someone said.
Another voice, lower: "Or maybe she just doesn't care."
That one lingered.
When the bell rang, Rhea moved first.
By the time anyone gathered the courage to speak to her, she was already gone—walking down the corridor alone, white walls reflecting her figure back at her over and over again.
A girl in her year watched her leave and whispered, almost unsure why she felt it:
"She looks… tired."
Rhea didn't hear that.
If she had, she wouldn't have corrected it.
She wasn't tired.
She was conserving herself.
In a place that taught how bodies failed, how hearts stopped, how lives could be lost in seconds—
Rhea had already learned the most important lesson.
Distance reduced damage.
And she practiced it flawlessly.
The house did not announce her return.
Rhea entered without sound, pushing the door shut with the same controlled pressure she used on everything else. No slam. No pause. Her keys went onto the side table in the exact place they always landed. Shoes aligned. Bag set down. Nothing disturbed.
The lights in the hallway stayed off.
From the living room, the television murmured—some talk show Kane always watched without really watching. A voice laughed too loudly. Another argued. The noise felt distant, unreal.
"Rhea," Kane called without looking away from the screen. "You're back early."
Rhea didn't answer.
She walked past the living room, her steps even on the marble floor. Her gaze never shifted. Kane turned slightly, irritation sharpening her tone.
"I asked you something."
Rhea stopped near the stairs. Not out of obedience—out of habit.
"I had labs," she said.
"That doesn't explain why you didn't answer your phone."
Rhea reached into her pocket, pulled it out, and placed it on the console table. The screen was dark. No missed calls. No messages.
"I didn't hear it."
Kane studied her back. "You're always tired now."
Rhea didn't correct her.
She climbed the stairs without another word. Kane watched her go, lips pressed tight.
"You should eat," Kane called after her. "Dinner's been ready for an hour."
"I'm not hungry."
That was the last thing she said.
The door to her room closed softly. The lock turned once. Then again.
Only then did the house truly lose her.
Rhea leaned her forehead against the door for a moment—just long enough for her breath to stutter. Then she straightened, as if someone were watching. The light stayed off as she crossed the room.
Her room went dark early. Every day.
The world faded. The strength collapsed.
She sat on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, fingers already reaching beneath the pillow where the fabric was folded. Ling's black shirt. Worn thin. Softened by time. The one she had taken and never returned.
She pressed it to her face.
It smelled faintly like her. Or maybe Rhea just needed it to.
Her shoulders shook. She bit down hard on the sound, jaw tight, breath torn and silent. Tears soaked into cotton she treated more gently than her own skin.
"I hate you," she whispered into the fabric.
Her fingers clenched.
"I love you," she confessed seconds later.
The words felt heavier each night. More dangerous. Less survivable.
She pressed the shirt harder against her mouth, biting down on the fabric as the sound tore its way up her chest. Her breathing broke apart, quick and uneven. She cried silently—tears hot, relentless, soaking into black cotton she refused to wash.
"I hate you," she whispered.
The words were hoarse, scraped raw from repetition.
She waited. Counted her breaths. Tried to steady herself.
"I hate you," she said again, quieter, like it might become true if she said it often enough.
Her grip tightened.
"I love you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Her chest caved in around the sound.
Rhea pressed her forehead into the shirt, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Tears spilled anyway, blurring everything until there was only dark and fabric and the echo of her own voice.
"You left," she whispered, accusation trembling.
"You didn't turn around."
Silence answered her. It always did.
She dragged in a breath, sharp enough to hurt.
She said. "You were supposed to make it easy."
Her fingers twisted into the fabric like she could anchor herself there.
She whispered. "I left. I disappeared. I stayed away."
Her voice cracked fully now.
"So why does it still feel like I'm the one being punished?"
She curled tighter, pressing the shirt to her chest like it might keep her heart from breaking open completely.
Outside the room, a door closed. Someone laughed softly. Life continued, unaware.
Inside, Rhea rocked slightly, back and forth, the motion small and controlled. She wiped her face with the sleeve and forced her breathing to slow.
No sounds. No proof.
When the tears finally eased, she lay back on the bed, staring into the dark, the shirt folded against her collarbone.
Her face went still again. Careful. Empty.
Tomorrow, she would wake up early. She would walk through antiseptic halls. She would be distant. Polite. Untouchable.
But tonight—
Tonight was always the same.
"I hate you," she whispered into the dark.
"I love you," she admitted seconds later.
She stayed like that until her breathing slowed, until the ache dulled enough to endure. Then she folded the shirt carefully and placed it back where it belonged.
The room remained dark.
Outside her door, the house continued—voices rising, dishes clinking, Kane moving through rooms with purpose and control.
Inside, Rhea lay on her side, staring at nothing.
Every night.