After writing the prescription, the doctor looked at her for a moment.
She seemed confident, yet strangely devoid of emotion. He continued observing her without saying a word, as though searching for something hidden beneath her calm expression.
But her body language revealed nothing.
“So,” he finally said, “you have to take these medicines for the next two months and come back for a follow-up.”
“Yes.”
She remained seated.
The doctor looked at her again.
“You can go home now. I’ll be waiting for you when we meet again in two months.”
“Okay…” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. So… see you after two months.”
“Yes. See you then.”
She stood and quietly left the consultation room.
As the door closed behind her, the doctor felt strangely relieved.
He reached for one of the many books on the shelf beside him and tried to read. But he couldn’t get beyond the second sentence.
His eyes remained on the page.
His mind did not.
There was something about her.
Something he couldn’t understand.
Something that made him uneasy.
Two Months Later
She returned exactly as promised.
This time, she brought a few books as a gift.
There was no apparent change in her behaviour. She answered his questions with the same few words, her expression calm and unreadable.
Then she began asking questions of her own.
Interesting questions.
Questions about the mind. About fear. About memory. About the fragile boundary between sanity and madness.
For a moment, she sounded less like a patient and more like someone studying the human mind professionally.
The doctor answered carefully, keeping his replies clinical and detached.
Finally, he wrote another prescription.
“Take these for the next two months,” he said. “And come back after that.”
She nodded.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She stood and walked toward the door.
As she stepped outside, she opened the prescription.
She stopped.
There were no medicines written on it.
No dosage.
No instructions.
Only a few random lines.
She stared at them for a moment, then gave a hopeless whisper.
She went to the receptionist and handed over the file she was holding in her hand on which it’s written “The Psychiatrist”.
She asked “ Is the next patient ready?”.
