Results Without a Name
The clinic smelled like antiseptic pretending to be neutral.
It was the kind of scent that tried to erase itself the moment you noticed it–clean, sharp, almost polite–but it clung to the back of Ethan’s throat anyway, a reminder that he had brought his body somewhere to be examined and explained.
Thursday, 10:17 a.m.
He sat in a plastic chair with his knees apart, hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles looked paler than they should. Around him, a television on the wall played a morning talk show with the sound turned low. The hosts’ mouths moved in exaggerated cheer. The captions crawled across the bottom of the screen like they were trying to be helpful.
Ethan couldn’t read a word.
His gaze kept dropping to his own hands, then lifting to the glass panel that separated the waiting area from the reception counter. Every time the glass caught the light, it held a faint reflection of him.
Smooth jaw.
Hair that sat a fraction too long at his temples, refusing to lie flat.
A soft shirt draped over a chest he didn’t want to think about.
He looked like a man waiting for a job interview.
He felt like a man waiting for a verdict.
His phone buzzed.
Clara.
Did you reach?
Ethan stared at the message a moment too long. He could picture her at her desk, typing quickly, eyes bright with that calm certainty she wore like perfume.
Here, he typed.
The dots appeared.
Good. Breathe. Tell them everything. And drink water.
Ethan exhaled through his nose.
I know.
He meant it.
He also resented it.
Across the waiting room, a child whined softly, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. A man in a polo shirt coughed into his elbow. Somewhere behind a closed door, a printer spat out paper.
Ethan tried to anchor himself in those small, ordinary sounds.
He tried to make this appointment feel like something adults did, a sensible response to an annoying symptom.
But his chest still ached faintly beneath the soft fabric.
His skin still felt too calm, too receptive, as if it had forgotten how to be rough.
And the memory of crying in the pantry still sat behind his ribs like a bruise.
The receptionist called a name.
Not his.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, tasting faint coffee from the morning he’d promised himself he wouldn’t drink coffee anymore. He hadn’t made it past seven.
He hated that his body seemed to have opinions now.
A door opened.
A nurse appeared and looked around.
“Ethan Tan?” she called.
Ethan’s body moved before his mind finished processing. He stood too quickly, chair scraping softly against the tiled floor. A faint dizziness swept through him–brief, disorienting–and he steadied himself with a hand on the chair.
The nurse’s gaze flicked over him, professional and neutral. “This way.”
Ethan followed her down a narrow corridor lined with posters about flu shots and healthy eating. The posters were cheerful, full of bright colours and smiling people who looked like they had never been startled by their own reflection.
The nurse led him into a small room and gestured toward a chair.
“Height and weight,” she said.
Ethan stepped onto the scale.
The numbers blinked.
He tried not to stare.
He had lost a little weight since last year, or maybe he’d just redistributed it without meaning to. His clothes didn’t feel tighter. They didn’t feel looser either. They simply felt as if they sat differently on him, like the fabric was negotiating with new shapes.
The nurse wrote something down.
“Blood pressure,” she said.
The cuff tightened around his arm.
Ethan watched the nurse’s hands as she adjusted it. Her nails were short and clean, her movements efficient. She didn’t linger. She didn’t look at him like he was strange.
The machine beeped.
The nurse read the numbers and nodded.
“Any allergies?” she asked.
“No,” Ethan replied.
“Current medications?”
Ethan hesitated.
“None,” he said.
The nurse looked up. “Supplements? Vitamins?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
“I used to,” he admitted. “But I… stopped.”
The nurse nodded without judgement, scribbling. “Okay. What brings you in today?”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
This was the part he had rehearsed and failed to rehearse at the same time.
He could say he was tired.
He could say stress.
He could say mood swings.
But the truth sat under all of it, warm and tender.
“I’ve been feeling… off,” he said carefully.
The nurse waited, pen hovering.
Ethan swallowed.
“Emotionally,” he added, because it was easier to confess feelings than flesh. “Mood swings. I… cried over nothing.”
The nurse’s expression remained neutral. “Okay.”
Ethan forced himself to continue. “And… physically. My skin feels different. I’m not growing facial hair the way I used to.” He hesitated, then added quickly, “And I’ve had some… chest discomfort.”
The word discomfort felt like a coward’s choice.
The nurse nodded, writing. “Chest pain? Like heart pain?”
“No,” Ethan said immediately. “Not like that. More like… tenderness.”
The nurse paused, then wrote again, calm as if Ethan had just described a sprained ankle.
“Any lumps?” she asked.
Ethan’s stomach dropped. “I don’t know.”
The nurse glanced up briefly. “Doctor will examine. Any changes in appetite? Sleep?”
Ethan laughed once, short and humourless. “I sleep. I just don’t feel… rested.”
The nurse nodded, a small professional sympathy. “Okay. The doctor will see you soon.”
She stepped out.
Ethan sat alone in the small room.
The silence felt loud.
He stared at the cabinet of supplies, at the poster of an anatomical heart that made his own chest tighten with reflexive fear. He adjusted his shirt without thinking–fingers tugging at the fabric near his sternum–then froze mid-motion.
His hand dropped.
He stared at his lap.
He had never moved like that before.
The door opened.
A man in a white coat stepped in, carrying a tablet. He was in his forties, glasses perched on his nose, expression calm in a way that made Ethan feel both relieved and exposed.
“Ethan?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” Ethan replied, voice too tight.
The doctor smiled faintly. “I’m Dr. Lim. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands. Dr. Lim’s grip was firm and brief, his palm cool.
He sat on a stool, glanced at the tablet, then looked up at Ethan.
“So,” he said gently, “tell me what’s been going on.”
Ethan swallowed.
Hearing it asked again made the problem feel heavier.
He tried to speak like he was presenting an issue at work–structured, logical, clear.
“I’ve been having mood swings,” he said. “I’ve been… more emotional than normal. And I noticed physical changes.”
Dr. Lim nodded once, inviting.
“My facial hair isn’t growing like it used to,” Ethan continued, cheeks warming. “I used to shave every couple of days. Now I barely need to. My skin feels smoother. And… I have chest tenderness.”
He looked away after saying it.
Dr. Lim didn’t react the way Ethan feared. He didn’t raise his brows or tilt his head like this was absurd.
He simply asked, “How long has this been happening?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He could say a month.
He could say a few weeks.
But the truth had been creeping in for longer.
“A few months,” he admitted.
Dr. Lim nodded. “Any weight changes?”
“Not really,” Ethan said, then hesitated. “Maybe a little. But not… dramatic.”
“Any changes in sex drive?” Dr. Lim asked, tone neutral, clinical.
Ethan’s face heated.
He looked down at his hands.
He had noticed. Of course he had noticed. But naming it felt like carving it into stone.
“Maybe,” he said quietly.
Dr. Lim didn’t push. “Okay. Any new medications? New supplements? Any recreational drugs?”
“No,” Ethan said quickly. “I stopped supplements.”
“Any family history of thyroid problems? Hormone issues?”
Ethan shook his head.
Dr. Lim tapped something into the tablet, then looked up.
“Stress can affect mood,” he said. “But the physical changes you’re describing–reduced facial hair growth, skin changes, chest tenderness–those suggest we should look at hormones, thyroid function, and a few other things. Chest tenderness in men can be due to a few causes, including gynecomastia, which is benign breast tissue development. Sometimes it’s temporary. Sometimes it’s related to hormone imbalance.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped at the word breast.
He clenched his jaw.
Dr. Lim continued calmly, “I’d like to examine your chest, if that’s okay.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He nodded stiffly. “Okay.”
Dr. Lim stood and pulled a curtain slightly, giving the room a sense of privacy even though they were already alone.
“Please lift your shirt,” Dr. Lim said.
Ethan’s hands hesitated at the hem.
The fabric felt too soft, too intimate.
He pulled it up anyway, exposing his chest to the cool air.
Tenderness flared as the fabric brushed the sensitive area.
Ethan winced despite himself.
Dr. Lim’s gaze was clinical, not invasive. He palpated gently around Ethan’s chest, asking, “Here? Any pain?”
“Yes,” Ethan admitted, voice tight.
“Here?”
“A little.”
Dr. Lim’s hands were careful, not pressing hard, as if he understood that the tenderness was both physical and emotional.
After a moment, he stepped back. “Okay. There is some tenderness, and some slight tissue change. It’s not alarming on its own, but it warrants investigation.”
Ethan pulled his shirt down quickly, fingers shaking.
Dr. Lim sat again.
“We’ll do blood tests,” he said. “Thyroid function, liver function, kidney function, and a hormone panel. That includes testosterone, estradiol, prolactin, and a few related markers. We’ll also check for any signs of inflammation or other causes.”
Ethan stared at him.
He knew, intellectually, that these were just tests.
But hearing the words testosterone and estradiol made his chest tighten as if his body understood something his brain didn’t want to.
Dr. Lim’s voice remained steady. “Sometimes the cause is straightforward–thyroid issues, medication effects, weight changes. Sometimes it’s idiopathic, meaning we don’t find a clear cause immediately. Either way, the first step is to get data.”
Ethan nodded slowly.
Data.
Numbers.
He could handle numbers.
“Okay,” he said.
Dr. Lim’s expression softened. “Any questions?”
Ethan’s mouth opened.
A question rose, sharp and dangerous.
Could this be something someone is giving me?
The thought made his stomach turn.
He swallowed it.
Instead, he asked something safer. “Is it… reversible?”
Dr. Lim paused, considering.
“Depends on the cause,” he said honestly. “If it’s a temporary imbalance, yes. If there is tissue development, some of that can persist. That’s why it’s important to identify what’s driving it. But I don’t want you to panic. We’re not at conclusions yet.”
Ethan nodded, throat tight.
Not at conclusions.
He thanked the doctor, then followed the nurse to the phlebotomy room.
The needle prick was nothing compared to the rest.
He watched his blood fill the vials–dark red, steady, unquestioning.
It felt strange that his body could produce that calm flow while his mind felt like it was spinning.
When it was done, he left the clinic with a small bandage on his inner elbow and a follow-up appointment scheduled for next week.
The receptionist handed him a slip of paper.
Dates.
Times.
A promise that soon, someone would put a name to the weather inside him.
Outside, the sun was bright enough to make the street look unreal.
Ethan walked toward the MRT with his eyes slightly narrowed against the light.
His chest ached faintly.
His skin felt too sensitive under the fabric.
And his mind, now armed with medical words, did what it always did.
It built fear out of terminology.
Clara called him during his ride home.
Ethan stared at the screen a beat before answering.
“Hey,” he said.
“How did it go?” Clara asked.
Her voice was warm, attentive.
Ethan tried to hold onto that warmth.
“They took blood,” he said. “They’re running tests.”
Clara hummed softly. “Good. Did you tell them everything?”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He thought of lifting his shirt.
Of the doctor’s careful hands.
Of the word gynecomastia.
“Yes,” he lied, then corrected himself, because he hated lying in general even if he did it constantly lately. “Mostly.”
Clara’s tone remained gentle. “Mostly means what?”
Ethan stared at the metal panel of the train door, where his reflection sat faintly.
Smooth jaw.
Hair falling forward.
He swallowed. “I told them about the chest tenderness.”
A pause.
Then Clara, soft: “Okay. I’m proud of you.”
Proud again.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He forced a neutral sound. “They said it could be hormone imbalance.”
Clara didn’t sound startled. “That makes sense.”
Ethan’s brows pulled together. “It makes sense?”
Clara laughed softly, as if he were overreacting. “I mean, your body has been acting like it’s out of balance. Hormones control everything. Mood, hair, skin. It’s not a big mystery.”
Ethan stared.
Her calmness should have reassured him.
It didn’t.
It made him feel like he was the only one frightened.
“Okay,” he said, voice flat.
Clara’s tone softened. “Hey. Don’t spiral. We’ll wait for the results.”
We.
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
“We’ll see,” he said.
Clara didn’t argue. “Come over tonight,” she said. “I’ll cook something light. Clean. You should avoid caffeine. And… don’t go to the gym today.”
Ethan exhaled slowly. “You’re giving me instructions.”
Clara’s voice remained warm. “I’m taking care of you.”
The phrase should have landed like comfort.
Instead, it landed like pressure.
Ethan swallowed. “I’ll see.”
Clara paused, then softened her tone further, as if she’d learned where his resistance lived.
“Okay,” she said. “At least eat. And drink water.”
The call ended.
Ethan stared at his reflection in the metal panel until the train doors opened.
When he stepped onto the platform, he felt the weight of his hair against his forehead and wanted, irrationally, to cut it all off.
But he had already trimmed it.
And it had grown back anyway.
He didn’t go to Clara’s that night.
The decision arrived as a quiet rebellion, not a dramatic fight. Ethan went home, reheated leftovers, ate standing in his kitchen, and tried to inhabit solitude like it was a choice rather than a consequence.
He threw the supplement trash bag into the chute.
He cleaned his sink.
He stared at his razor.
He went to bed early.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
He lay in the dark with his hand resting over his chest through the soft fabric, fingers splayed like he could hold himself in place.
Tenderness pulsed faintly beneath his palm.
Not loud.
Not unbearable.
Just present.
His mind kept replaying Dr. Lim’s words.
Hormone panel.
Estradiol.
Testosterone.
Tissue development.
Persist.
Ethan swallowed hard.
He didn’t like the idea that his body could make choices without his consent.
He didn’t like the idea that his body could become something he didn’t recognise and then refuse to return.
At some point after midnight, his phone lit up.
A message from Clara.
I saved you food. Don’t skip meals. Your body needs stability right now.
Ethan stared at the words until his vision blurred.
Not with tears.
Not this time.
With a strange heat behind his eyes, like emotion threatening to become weather again.
He typed: Thanks.
Three dots appeared.
Come over tomorrow, Clara replied. I’ll pack you lunch for the week. Less variables.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Less variables.
The words echoed his own earlier thought.
He stared at the screen.
It could be coincidence.
It could be normal.
Couples shared language. People picked up each other’s phrases.
Still, the alignment felt too neat.
He set the phone down without replying.
He turned onto his side.
His hair spread across the pillow.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness, he tried to imagine the blood tests as nothing more than numbers.
He tried to imagine the results arriving and offering a simple explanation.
Thyroid.
Stress.
Something fixable.
Something that didn’t require him to look at his own chest and wonder whether his body was quietly rewriting itself.
He fell asleep eventually, not because he found peace, but because exhaustion always won.
The results arrived on Monday.
Not with a phone call.
Not with a dramatic summons.
With a notification.
Ethan was at his desk when his phone buzzed.
Your test results are available in the portal.
His pulse jumped.
He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary.
He clicked the link.
A login screen.
A password he never remembered.
A code sent to his email.
Every small barrier felt like the universe asking if he was sure he wanted to know.
Ethan typed, logged in, navigated.
A list of results appeared.
Numbers.
Reference ranges.
Flags.
A few were marked abnormal.
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He didn’t understand all of them.
He understood enough to feel the ground tilt.
A note at the top read: Please schedule follow-up with your physician to discuss results.
No diagnosis.
No explanation.
Just data without a name.
Ethan stared at the screen until his vision blurred.
This time, his eyes did not spill over.
But he could feel the emotion building behind his ribs, slow and heavy.
He closed the portal.
He opened it again.
He stared.
The numbers did not change.
He set his phone down.
His fingers drifted to his jaw.
Smooth.
Then to his chest.
Tender.
Then to his hair, brushing it back.
Too soft.
Too present.
A coworker walked past and asked, “You okay?”
Ethan forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
The lie tasted familiar now.
By the end of the day, he had scheduled the follow-up appointment.
Next week.
More waiting.
More weather.
That evening, Clara texted.
Any update?
Ethan stared at the screen.
He could tell her the results were in.
He could tell her there were abnormalities.
He could tell her he didn’t understand.
He could tell her he was frightened.
Instead, he typed: Not yet. Follow-up next week.
The dots appeared.
Okay, Clara replied. Come over tomorrow. I’ll cook. Clean food. And I’ll pack you lunch. We need stability.
We need stability.
Ethan stared at the words.
In the glow of his phone, the crackle pattern on his own lonely mug sat on the counter, catching the light in tiny frozen fractures.
He set the phone down.
He didn’t reply.
He didn’t refuse.
He simply sat in the quiet of his apartment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the faint distant traffic, and realised the most terrifying part wasn’t the abnormal numbers.
It was the waiting.
The not knowing.
The way the answers were still out of reach.
And the way, in the absence of answers, his mind kept circling the same ordinary things.
Food.
Tea.
Comfort.
Care.
Words that should have meant safety.
Words that, lately, had begun to feel like they carried instructions.