The Second Opinion
The word abnormal looked too loud on a phone screen.
Ethan had read it so many times over the past two days that it had begun to lose its meaning, the way a word turns strange when you repeat it in your mouth. Abnormal. Not catastrophic. Not definitive. Not even a diagnosis.
Just a flag.
A small red triangle beside numbers that refused to explain themselves.
He lay on his back in bed at three in the morning with the brightness turned down as far as it would go, scrolling through the patient portal again, as if the results might soften if he stared hard enough. The room was dark and quiet, his curtains drawn against the city glow, his fan turning slow circles of warm air that did nothing to settle the restless heat under his skin.
His shirt clung lightly to his chest.
Tenderness pulsed beneath it, faint but persistent–like his body had become a place where something was always happening just below the surface.
Ethan set the phone down on his stomach and stared at the ceiling.
There was a moment in that darkness, suspended between one breath and the next, when his mind tried to offer him a clean explanation.
Thyroid.
Stress.
Sleep.
Anything that could be treated with a pill and a checklist.
Instead, the only thing he could hear was the echo of Dr. Lim’s calm voice.
Hormone panel.
Tissue development.
Persist.
Ethan swallowed.
He pressed his palm against his chest through the fabric, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to convince himself that he was still in the same body he had always lived in.
The tenderness answered anyway.
He removed his hand.
He turned onto his side.
And the next thing he noticed–quietly, in the way that made shame arrive after the fact–was the absence of something that used to be so automatic it didn’t require thought.
No restless urge.
No morning pressure.
No familiar insistence of his body reminding him it was male in the most mechanical way.
Ethan lay still, embarrassed by the thought, then more embarrassed by the way the embarrassment felt sharp and tender at once.
He was not the kind of person who measured himself by libido.
But the absence felt like one more thing leaving without asking.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep did not come.
At six, his alarm rang. He shut it off before it could ring twice.
He got up and went through his morning routine with the stiff efficiency of someone pretending his body wasn’t an active question.
Shower.
Towel.
Mirror.
A face that looked like his but seemed… polished.
The smooth jaw again.
He lifted the razor out of habit, held it under the tap, then set it back down.
There was no point.
He stared at his reflection, breathing slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured, not as reassurance but as a boundary. “Okay. We’re not spiralling today.”
The word spiralling tasted like Clara.
He hated that.
He dressed in one of the soft shirts, because his chest still flared when fabric dragged across it, and he couldn’t afford to flinch in public again. The shirt slid over him like water, hiding what he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He grabbed his keys.
Then, on impulse, he reached into his wallet and touched the folded supermarket receipt he had kept like it mattered.
Paper.
Numbers.
Proof.
He didn’t know what he was proving yet.
He left for work.
The office looked the same as it always did: clean desks, meeting rooms with glass walls, people in smart-casual outfits pretending they weren’t exhausted. The fluorescent lights flattened everything into competence.
Ethan sat at his desk and opened his laptop.
His inbox was full.
He stared at it without reading.
A coworker walked past and greeted him with a cheerful, “Morning!”
Ethan forced a smile. “Morning.”
He tried to anchor himself in tasks.
He answered emails.
He attended a call.
He took notes.
He watched his own hand write words that made sense on paper while his body hummed with a quiet, persistent wrongness.
During a lull, he rubbed his thumb over the inside of his elbow where the clinic bandage had been.
It was healed.
The blood had already left him, been analysed, turned into flags.
Ethan opened the portal again.
Abnormal.
Abnormal.
Abnormal.
He stared until his eyes burned.
His phone buzzed.
Clara.
Did you sleep?
Ethan stared at the message and felt his irritation spike without warning.
He typed, Not really.
The dots appeared immediately.
Come over tonight. I’ll make you something light. No coffee today, okay? And drink water.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He typed, I’m at work.
I know, Clara replied. I’m just reminding you.
Reminding.
The word should have been harmless.
Ethan stared at it and felt, irrationally, like he was being managed through the screen.
He set the phone down without replying.
The silence lasted exactly two minutes.
Then his manager called him into a meeting.
As he stood, his hair fell forward into his eyes and he brushed it back sharply, annoyed at the strands for existing.
In the conference room, he sat through thirty minutes of discussion and smiled when appropriate.
A colleague across from him–someone he didn’t know well–tilted her head and said, lightly, “Your skin looks really good lately. Did you change skincare?”
The comment was casual.
The room laughed politely.
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He forced a laugh. “No. Just tired.”
The colleague shrugged. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
Working.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
He looked down at his notebook, pretending to write, while the back of his neck prickled with heat.
He could feel, in a way that made him want to crawl out of his skin, that his body was becoming visible.
Not in a dramatic way.
In an incremental way.
Like a photograph slowly developing into a different version of him.
When the meeting ended, Ethan returned to his desk and stared at his calendar.
He had a follow-up appointment scheduled next week.
Waiting another week felt impossible.
He opened a new tab and searched for endocrinologists, private clinics, second opinions.
He didn’t click anything yet.
He stared.
Then he closed the tab.
Then he opened it again.
His phone buzzed.
This time it was Maya.
You alive? she texted.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He typed, Barely.
Maya replied almost instantly.
Lunch? Today. No excuses.
Ethan hesitated.
His instinct was to refuse.
Work. Meetings. Deadlines.
But the truth was, he wanted someone who wasn’t Clara to look at him and tell him he wasn’t losing his mind.
He typed, Okay. One hour.
Maya’s response was immediate.
Good. I’m choosing the place.
Ethan exhaled.
He stared at his portal results one last time, then shut his phone.
Decision made.
Not solved.
Made.
Maya picked a café that was quieter than their usual spots, tucked behind a row of offices with a shaded walkway that made the world feel slightly slower. The air smelled like roasted beans and rain that never quite arrived. Inside, the lighting was warm and forgiving.
Ethan arrived a few minutes late and slid into the seat across from her.
Maya didn’t greet him with jokes this time.
She looked at him and her expression shifted–something between concern and annoyance.
“Okay,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell me what is happening.”
Ethan exhaled. “Hello to you too.”
“I said hello with my face,” Maya replied. “Now talk.”
Ethan stared down at the menu he didn’t plan to read.
“I saw a doctor,” he admitted.
Maya’s eyebrows lifted. “Finally.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t–”
“You were going to keep pretending,” Maya cut in. “Don’t argue.”
Ethan swallowed.
Maya’s tone softened slightly. “Okay. What did they say?”
Ethan took a slow breath.
“They did bloodwork,” he said. “They ran a hormone panel. Some things were… abnormal.”
Maya’s gaze sharpened. “What things?”
Ethan hesitated.
He could feel the heat rising in his face. He hated that this was the kind of thing that made him feel exposed.
“I don’t understand the results,” he admitted. “The portal shows numbers. Some are flagged. The doctor wants to discuss next week.”
Maya swore softly. “That’s ridiculous. They can’t just leave you hanging.”
Ethan’s mouth tightened. “Apparently they can.”
Maya tapped her nails lightly on the table, then stared at him.
“And the symptoms?” she asked. “Tell me the symptoms.”
Ethan swallowed.
He forced himself to list them the way he’d rehearsed in his head.
“Mood swings,” he said. “My skin is… different. Smoother. I barely grow facial hair now. And my chest is tender.”
The last sentence landed like a weight.
Maya didn’t laugh.
She didn’t look away.
Her expression remained steady, but something in her eyes tightened.
“Chest tender like muscle soreness?” she asked carefully.
Ethan shook his head. “No.”
Maya stared at him.
Ethan felt his throat tighten.
“Like… the skin,” he admitted. “Like it’s sensitive.”
Maya leaned back, exhaling slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. That’s not nothing.”
Ethan stared at his hands.
Maya’s voice lowered slightly. “Has anything changed in your life? New diet? New supplements? New… anything?”
Ethan shook his head. “I threw out supplements.”
“Before or after the symptoms?” Maya asked.
“After,” Ethan said, then added quickly, “I thought maybe it was something I was taking.”
Maya nodded, thoughtful.
“What about stress?” she asked.
Ethan let out a humourless laugh. “I’m always stressed.”
Maya’s mouth tightened. “Yeah, but this is different.”
Ethan didn’t respond.
Maya stared at him for another beat, then said, gently, “Is Clara… helping?”
Ethan blinked.
The question was simple.
It should have been harmless.
And yet, something in Ethan stiffened.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “She’s been supportive.”
Maya’s gaze didn’t move. “Supportive how?”
Ethan frowned. “What do you mean?”
Maya tilted her head. “I mean, is she helping you get answers? Or is she… managing you?”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
He heard Clara’s voice in his head.
Drink water.
No coffee.
Come over.
We’ll do it properly.
Ethan swallowed.
“She’s just taking care of me,” he said.
Maya didn’t argue immediately. She sipped her iced coffee and studied him.
“You’re defensive,” she observed.
“I’m not,” Ethan lied.
Maya’s expression softened a fraction. “Ethan, I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m just asking because you look… like you’ve been living under someone else’s routine.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He hated that the statement felt accurate.
Maya continued, carefully, “Does she cook for you a lot?”
Ethan blinked. “She likes cooking.”
Maya nodded slowly. “And you eat mostly at her place?”
Ethan hesitated.
He could feel, in his chest, the subtle tug of unease.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Maya’s gaze sharpened again. “And she makes you tea, right? You mentioned it once.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He hadn’t meant to make tea sound like a thing.
“It’s just tea,” he said quickly.
Maya held his gaze. “Okay.”
Her tone said she wasn’t convinced. Or maybe she was just thinking.
Ethan’s fingers curled against his thigh.
He forced his voice to stay neutral. “She’s not doing anything wrong, Maya.”
Maya’s brows lifted. “I didn’t say she was.”
Ethan exhaled sharply.
Maya leaned forward.
“I’m not trying to take your girlfriend away from you,” she said. “I’m trying to take your anxiety seriously. That’s all.”
Ethan swallowed.
Maya’s voice softened. “Look, if your results are abnormal and they’re making you wait, get a second opinion. Today. This week. Don’t sit on this.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He nodded slowly. “I was thinking about it.”
“Good,” Maya said, decisive. “Do it.”
Ethan stared at her.
Maya added, quieter, “And if you need someone to go with you, I can.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He hadn’t realised he wanted that until she said it.
“I’ll… see,” he said.
Maya rolled her eyes. “No. Don’t see. Do.”
Despite himself, Ethan laughed softly.
The laugh felt like a release.
Maya’s expression softened further, satisfied.
“Text me after you book,” she said.
Ethan nodded.
They finished lunch with lighter conversation–work gossip, a ridiculous story about Maya’s neighbour, a complaint about overpriced cafes.
Ethan tried to let himself feel normal.
But the question Maya had asked lingered.
Managing you.
Ethan told himself it was an overreach.
Clara was just attentive.
Clara cared.
Clara liked routines.
Clara cooked.
Clara made tea.
None of those were crimes.
Still, the alignment of her care with his symptoms made something in his mind twitch.
Not suspicion.
Not yet.
Just… awareness.
When he returned to work, he opened his browser and searched for specialist clinics again.
This time, he clicked.
The second clinic was in a hospital building that smelled like old air-conditioning and hand sanitiser. The lobby was wide and bright, and the fluorescent lights were less forgiving than the café’s warmth.
Ethan stood at the reception counter with his phone in hand, showing the appointment confirmation he had booked online.
The receptionist nodded and handed him a clipboard.
“Fill this,” she said.
Ethan took it and sat down.
The form asked for the same things as the last clinic.
Allergies.
Medications.
Supplements.
Ethan wrote none with a tight jaw.
Then, on impulse, he wrote stopped supplements recently in the margin, as if the detail mattered.
His chest ached faintly as he leaned forward.
He adjusted his shirt, then caught himself.
His hand dropped.
He stared at the clipboard.
He hated that his body had taught him new movements.
A nurse called his name.
Ethan stood.
This nurse was younger than the last, her expression brisk. She led him down a corridor and into a room where a doctor waited.
The doctor introduced herself as Dr. Rani.
She was in her thirties, hair pulled back, eyes sharp behind thin-framed glasses.
Ethan explained his symptoms again.
Reduced facial hair.
Skin changes.
Mood swings.
Chest tenderness.
Abnormal bloodwork.
Dr. Rani listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she nodded once.
“Do you have the results?” she asked.
Ethan pulled out his phone and handed it over.
Dr. Rani scrolled.
Her expression remained controlled.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Some of these markers suggest your hormones are not in their typical range. That can happen for many reasons. The first clinic is right to follow up.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened. “But they’re making me wait.”
Dr. Rani looked at him. “Waiting is not ideal when it causes anxiety, but it also prevents us from overreacting. That said, we can do some additional evaluation now.”
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Dr. Rani continued, “I want to rule out a few things. We can do a physical exam, and I’d like an ultrasound of the chest tissue to confirm what’s happening there. Sometimes tenderness and swelling can be benign breast tissue development. Sometimes it’s fat. Sometimes it’s something else. Imaging helps.”
The word ultrasound made Ethan’s stomach drop.
He nodded anyway.
Dr. Rani examined him with the same clinical care as Dr. Lim, palpating gently, asking questions.
Ethan stared at the ceiling while her fingers moved, trying to detach.
When it was done, Dr. Rani stepped back.
“There is some tissue change,” she said. “Mild, but present. It’s consistent with what you’re reporting. We’ll confirm on imaging.”
Ethan swallowed.
“Okay,” he managed.
Dr. Rani sat and tapped notes into her computer.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer honestly. This is not judgement. It’s just medicine.”
Ethan nodded.
“Any medications? Prescriptions? Herbal supplements? Performance enhancers?”
“No,” Ethan said.
“Any exposure to someone else’s medications? Shared pills in the house? Creams? Patches? Anything like that?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He hesitated a fraction too long.
Dr. Rani’s gaze sharpened. “Any?”
Ethan swallowed. “No.”
It was true, he told himself.
Clara didn’t have medications lying around.
He hadn’t seen any.
Dr. Rani nodded, typing.
“Any recreational substances? Alcohol? Smoking?”
“No smoking. Social drinking,” Ethan said.
“Okay.” Dr. Rani glanced at him. “We’ll repeat a hormone panel today, just to confirm. Lab errors happen. Variations happen. And we’ll schedule imaging.”
Ethan’s chest tightened. “What if it’s not an error?”
Dr. Rani’s expression softened slightly. “Then we look for causes. Thyroid. Liver function. Pituitary hormones. Testicular function. Sometimes weight changes. Sometimes–rarely–tumours. But I don’t want you to jump to that. We take it step by step.”
Ethan nodded, throat tight.
Step by step.
It sounded reasonable.
It also sounded like a long road.
“Will I… go back to normal?” Ethan asked quietly.
Dr. Rani paused.
“Depends on what’s driving it,” she said. “If we remove the cause, many effects can improve. But if there is breast tissue development, some of that can persist. Again, we need data before conclusions.”
Persist.
The word hit him like a punch.
Ethan swallowed.
Dr. Rani continued, practical, “In the meantime, avoid any unregulated supplements. Try to maintain a stable routine. Sleep. Hydration. Balanced diet.” She glanced at him. “And try not to catastrophise.”
Ethan let out a faint laugh. “I’m trying.”
Dr. Rani’s mouth softened into something like sympathy. “Good. We’ll do the blood draw now. Imaging will be scheduled within a week.”
Within a week.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Better than waiting in the dark.
He followed the nurse to the lab again.
Needle.
Vials.
Blood turning into answers.
When he left the hospital building, the air outside felt thicker, as if the city had pressed itself closer.
He checked his phone.
A text from Maya.
Booked?
Ethan typed back, Yes. Second clinic. Ultrasound soon. More blood.
Maya’s reply came fast.
Good. Proud of you. Eat something. And stop letting anyone talk you out of your instincts.
Ethan stared at the last line.
Anyone.
He didn’t know whether it was aimed at Clara or at himself.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and walked to the MRT.
Clara texted him that evening.
Come over?
Ethan stared at the message in his apartment’s dim kitchen light.
He should have said no.
He had been poked twice by needles in one week. He felt raw, exposed, tired. He wanted solitude.
He also wanted comfort.
He hated that those wants had become tangled.
He typed, I had a second appointment today.
The dots appeared.
Why didn’t you tell me? Clara replied.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
It was last minute, he typed.
Okay, Clara replied. Did you eat?
There it was again.
The question that sounded caring and felt like inventory.
Ethan stared.
Yes, he typed.
A beat.
Come over anyway. I’ll make you tea. And I’ll pack you lunch for the week. Less variables.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Less variables.
His own phrase.
He stared at the screen for a long moment.
Couples shared language.
It was normal.
He typed, Okay.
Clara’s apartment greeted him with warm light and the smell of something simmering.
She opened the door before he knocked, eyes bright with relief.
“There you are,” she said.
Ethan stepped inside.
Clara’s hands went to his hair automatically, smoothing it back as she kissed his cheek.
Ethan held still, letting the gesture happen.
“Are you okay?” Clara asked, scanning his face.
“I’m fine,” Ethan replied.
Clara’s mouth tightened faintly. “That’s not an answer.”
Ethan exhaled. “I went to another clinic. They’re doing more tests. Imaging.”
Clara’s expression softened with quick, practiced concern.
“Imaging?” she echoed.
“Ultrasound,” Ethan said.
Clara nodded immediately. “That’s good. That’s proper. We need confirmation.”
We.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t argue.
Clara guided him to the couch.
“Sit,” she said.
He sat.
Clara disappeared into the kitchen.
Ethan watched her move with that familiar competence–stirring, wiping, adjusting. Her apartment looked like it always did: ordered, controlled, softly lit.
His mug sat on the counter.
Waiting.
Ethan stared at it and felt the faintest twist in his stomach.
Clara returned with a plate of food.
“Eat,” she said.
Ethan looked at the plate.
Chicken.
Vegetables.
Rice portioned neatly.
Clean.
Less variables.
He ate because he was hungry.
He ate because refusing would become a conversation he didn’t have energy for.
He ate because the act of chewing felt like one of the few normal things he could still control.
Halfway through, Clara asked, lightly, “Did they say anything about what it might be?”
Ethan swallowed. “They said it could be many things. They want to rule out causes.”
Clara nodded. “Good.”
Ethan watched her face.
She looked genuinely concerned.
He told himself that concern was proof of her innocence.
After dinner, Clara cleared the table and made tea.
Tin.
Scoop.
Stir.
Pour.
The ritual continued.
She placed the mug in front of him.
“Drink,” she said.
Ethan stared at the steam.
His chest ached faintly beneath the soft shirt.
His skin felt too sensitive where the shirt touched.
His emotions felt like they were waiting behind his eyes.
He took a sip.
Warmth slid down.
His shoulders loosened despite himself.
Clara watched him with quiet relief.
“Better?” she asked.
Ethan nodded because he didn’t trust his voice.
Clara smiled.
Then she stood and began packing lunch.
It was efficient, almost elegant. Containers lined up on the counter. Portions measured without a scale. Labels written neatly.
Ethan watched, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and unease.
“So,” Clara said, without looking up, “imaging next week?”
“Yeah,” Ethan replied. “They said within a week.”
Clara nodded. “Good. You’ll go.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
Clara glanced at him then, expression soft. “I’m not trying to control you.”
The line made Ethan’s stomach twist.
He hadn’t accused her.
He hadn’t even thought it out loud.
He stared at her.
Clara’s gaze held his, calm and open.
“I just want you to be okay,” she added.
Ethan swallowed.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Clara’s smile returned, satisfied.
She finished packing the containers and slid them into a tote bag.
“There,” she said. “Less variables.”
Ethan stared at the bag.
It felt like a gift.
It also felt like a leash.
Clara stepped close and brushed his hair back again.
“You’re doing well,” she murmured.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know why praise felt like pressure.
He didn’t know why comfort felt like something he had to earn.
He took another sip of tea.
The warmth settled.
His thoughts slowed.
Clara leaned against him, head on his shoulder.
Ethan stared at the pantry in his peripheral vision.
The labelled tins.
The neat rows.
The tea tin sitting where it always sat.
Unremarkable.
Familiar.
A part of him wanted, irrationally, to stand up and move it.
To see if it was heavier than it should be.
To check whether it ever emptied.
He didn’t.
Because that would be paranoia.
Because he was not that kind of person.
Because love required trust.
Ethan sat still until his tea cooled.
When he finally stood to leave, Clara kissed his cheek and said, “Text me when you get home.”
“I always do,” Ethan replied.
“I know,” Clara said, smiling. “Still. Text me.”
The lift ride down felt longer than usual.
Ethan watched his reflection in the metal panel.
Smooth jaw.
Soft hair.
A face that looked… calm.
He hated that calm.
He reached up and touched his jaw anyway.
No stubble.
His chest ached faintly under the soft fabric.
He stepped out of the building and felt the city air hit his face.
The night smelled like petrol and rain and distant food stalls.
His phone buzzed as he walked.
A notification.
Radiology appointment scheduled.
Ethan’s pulse jumped.
He tapped it.
A date.
A time.
An address.
And one word that made his stomach drop through the pavement.
Ultrasound.
Ethan stopped walking.
Around him, the city moved on.
He stared at the screen until it blurred.
Not with tears.
With heat behind his eyes.
His chest throbbed faintly.
His skin felt too thin.
His body, already changing in ways he could not fully name, was about to be looked at under a machine that would show what he could no longer deny.
Ethan swallowed.
He forced himself to breathe.
He started walking again.
And somewhere deep in his mind, beneath the fear and the medical words and the carefully packed lunches, a quieter thought pressed gently against the walls of his denial.
If there was a cause, he wanted it to be something distant.
Something impersonal.
Something he could fix without losing faith in anyone.
He kept walking.
The night air felt heavy.
And the date on his phone glowed like a countdown.