Six weeks later Alex walked into the Women’s Health Pavilion feeling like a condemned woman.

She had finished every single suppository, exactly as prescribed. She had eaten more fiber than a rabbit. She had drunk water until she sloshed. She had even (God help her) started enjoying the quiet, guilty thrill of insertion so much that she’d bought a tiny bottle of water-based lube to keep in her nightstand drawer for “maintenance nights.” She hated herself for that last part most of all.

And still, every time she wiped, there was that faint pink streak. Not every day, but often enough that she couldn’t lie to herself anymore.

Dr. Endicott greeted her with the same warm, unruffled smile, but the chart in her hand looked thicker than last time.

“Hi, Alex. Hop up. How are we doing?”

Alex managed a strangled, “Better… I think?”

Dr. Endicott scrolled, frowned almost imperceptibly, then set the tablet aside.

“Let’s take a look.”

Alex assumed the position with practiced dread (left side, knees high, eyes fixed on the same stupid breast-self-exam poster). She had stopped fighting the embarrassment; it was simply part of the scenery now.

Cool air. The soft snap of gloves. A gentle parting of her cheeks.

Dr. Endicott was quiet for longer than usual.

“External hemorrhoid is completely resolved,” she said finally. “But the internal one… it’s still prolapsing a little when you bear down. And I’m seeing some irregular mucosa higher up. Nothing dramatic, but I don’t like the look of it from the outside.”

Alex’s stomach dropped through the floor.

“I want a specialist to take a proper look,” Dr. Endicott continued. “Anoscope at minimum, probably rigid rectoscopy. My instruments here aren’t long enough to see past the rectosigmoid junction, and that’s where I’m concerned.”

Alex made a small, mortified squeak.

Dr. Endicott gloved hand settled lightly on her hip (reassuring, professional, maddening). “It’s most likely just inflamed folds or another small polypoid tag, but we need high-resolution visualization. I’m referring you to Dr. Elena Reyes. Best colorectal surgeon in the city. She’ll probably want to scope you next week.”

Next week. Inside. With actual instruments.

Alex pulled the gown down and sat up, knees trembling.

Dr. Endicott was already writing on a referral slip. “They’ll sedate you lightly (propofol). You’ll be awake but very relaxed, and you won’t remember much. Perfectly routine.”

Routine for whom? Alex wanted to scream.

Instead she whispered, “Will… will she be able to tell?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Dr. Endicott paused, pen hovering. “Tell what, sweetheart?”

Alex’s face ignited. “That… that I… sometimes it feels…” She couldn’t finish.

Dr. Endicott expression softened into something almost tender. “That your body responds strongly to anal stimulation? Elena’s been doing this for fifteen years. She’s seen every possible reaction. Trust me, you will not be the first patient who gets a little… slick during a scope.”

Alex wanted to die on the spot.

Dr. Endicott handed her the referral. “Call today. And Alex?” She waited until Alex met her eyes. “There is nothing wrong with you. Bodies do what bodies do. Dr. Reyes will take excellent care of you.”

Alex fled the office clutching the paper like a death sentence.

That night she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, referral card on her nightstand next to the contraband lube bottle, and realized with a fresh wave of panic that in seven days a complete stranger was going to slide cold metal instruments deep into her rectum while she was half-conscious and (if her traitorous body had anything to say about it) humiliatingly, undeniably wet.

She rolled over, buried her face in the pillow, and let out the longest, most mortified groan of her entire life.

Seven days.

She was never going to survive this.