The hospital room was quiet except for the faint rustle of papers and the steady beep of a heart monitor. House sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with sharp, calculating eyes. Over the past few weeks, he’d noticed the changes—my plate always half-full, meals eaten in near silence, and the way I stepped on the scale obsessively, scribbling numbers in a small notebook.

He waited until the moment I looked vulnerable, standing near the window, hands trembling slightly as I held my notes. House’s voice was low but steady, cutting through the silence.

“You’ve been tracking your weight every day,” he said, not as a question, but a statement. “And eating less. A lot less.”

I stiffened, eyes darting away, the weight of unspoken words heavy in the air.

House moved closer, his voice softer now, though still carrying that undeniable intensity. “This isn’t just about losing a few pounds, is it?”

The walls seemed to close in. A shaky breath escaped me, and then the dam broke. Tears welled up, spilling over as I sank to the floor, overwhelmed and exposed.

House didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside me, arms wrapping around me in a firm but gentle embrace. His voice dropped to a whisper, steady and unwavering.

“You’re not broken. You’re not less than. You’re perfect. Just the way you are.”