The scent of blooming lilacs near the university overwhelmed even the smell of freshly brewed cappuccino drifting from the corner café. If being late had caused panic during my first years, now I only felt mild irritation. I took my phone out of my bag — five minutes left until the philosophy lecture started. Just enough time. I hurried up the stairs and flew into the classroom. I dropped my gym bag beside my chair. The important thing was not to forget it anywhere.

Nothing ruined a gorgeous, sunny May morning quite like the prospect of PE. It was always the same torture: cross-country running, squats, and volleyball. I was terribly bad at all of it—the ball always slipped through my fingers, my legs tangled, skin flushed red and turned slick with sweat. Skipping it wasn't just a whim; it was survival.

The philosophy teacher opened the window a crack. He was wearing a white shirt that had long ago surrendered to age, the outline of a thick wallet visible in his trouser pocket. He spoke with the confidence of a man who had spent decades explaining the same ideas:

"Newton's philosophical foundation rests on a strict distinction. He avoided claiming that an infinitesimal quantity is 'something' that exists on its own."

"Oksana," a rough voice sounded right above my ear. I looked up. He was standing next to me. "Instead of asking 'What is infinity?' what did Newton ask?"

The answer flew out of my mouth.

"Newton asks: 'How does it work in motion?'"

"Yes. That's correct."

He continued his lecture about Newton, absolute space, and time. From time to time, he adjusted his shirt collar or banged his fist on the table when someone started making noise or laughing in the audience.

Second class — information technology. Computer lab. Two rows of old computers that froze if you opened more than three tabs. The teacher was a petite woman around thirty-five, with short hair and an ever-present notebook in her hands. She didn't push anyone, gave automatic passes for attendance. Everyone liked her, but almost no one studied or took her subject seriously.

Today's topic — "Databases. SQL queries." I sat down at a computer near the door and turned it on. The screen lit up with a bluish light, the system took forever to load.

"Open the development environment," the teacher said in a melodic voice. "Today we'll write simple queries. SELECT, FROM, WHERE. Just like last time."

I opened it. I wrote: SELECT * FROM students. The results appeared immediately. A table with names and grades appeared. I smiled. The teacher came up behind me and looked at the monitor.

"You've got it all right, Oksana. Now try adding a condition: WHERE grade > 4."

I added: SELECT * FROM students WHERE grade > 4. Two rows appeared. Easy.

"Good job," she said and went to explain the assignments to my classmates.

The second half of the class — theory. They showed us a presentation about database types. I pretended to listen, but my thoughts were elsewhere. About gym class. About how to skip it.

By the end of class, my plan was fully formed.

I could go to the nurse. It was easy to get a note from her. The university medical office occupied a separate wing of one of the campus buildings, with its own entrance from the courtyard.

I'd just tell her my lower abdomen hurt, that it was that time of the month, that I couldn't run. I'd head to the medical office, and Nina Vasilievna — the nurse — would hand me an antispasmodic and a note to get me out of gym.

I knocked on the door of our university's medical office.

"Yes, come in."

A man of about twenty-seven sat behind the desk in a white coat so crisp it could have just come off the iron. Dark hair, fine angular features, the kind of face you'd expect in a gallery, not a university clinic. He looked up at me, his expression steady, unhurried, carrying an effortless confidence that immediately put me off balance.

"And where is the nurse?"

"She retired last week. And they haven't found us a new nurse yet, so I'm on my own right now."

He looked up and smiled, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

"Alexander Ivanovich," the doctor said, extending his hand. His palm was surprisingly soft, almost hot.

"I'm the new university physician. A general practitioner, though my approach is more integrative. I prefer looking at the body as a whole system rather than just treating isolated symptoms."

I noted he didn't smell like clinical antiseptic, but of fresh perfume with light but persistent notes of sandalwood. Something woody, warm. Not at all hospital-like.

"Oksana," I introduced myself, feeling my cheeks betray me with warmth.

"Tell me, Oksana, what are your complaints?"

"I'm actually here for a note. My stomach hurts. I'd like to get excused from gym class."

I tried to keep a neutral expression so he wouldn't guess I simply wanted to skip gym class. The warm May day beckoned me outside, not into a stuffy gym. Unfortunately, lying had never been my strength, and he seemed to realize that immediately.

Alexander Ivanovich studied me in silence. Somehow, the entire office seemed to revolve around him, while the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air. His gaze was calm but intensely attentive — the kind that made me want to lower my eyes, yet I couldn't look away.

"Excuses require grounds. Let's localize the pain. Where exactly?" His questions sounded as if he was already mentally drawing an anatomical atlas. This professional thoroughness confused me. I had expected a formal: "For how many days?" — and done. But he clearly wasn't going to brush it off with formalities.

"Well... down there," I made an uncertain motion around my abdomen.

"Painful periods? Frequent and persistent constipation?" he asked, jotting something down.

"Yes, all of the above. I'm really not up for PE today. Not with all this going on." I nodded, feeling the blush flood my face.

Silence fell in the office, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock. My naive little plan to skip class suddenly seemed ridiculous under his steady, penetrating gaze. I felt like a girl called on in class who hadn't done her homework.

"I... I was just thinking, maybe for a week..." I started to make excuses, but he interrupted softly but firmly.

"Excuses require grounds, Oksana. Lie down on the couch. I need to perform palpation. I, by the way, looked through your chart — you've complained of similar pains before."

His tone left no room for argument. I obediently headed behind the screen, feeling my heart pounding somewhere in my throat.

"Take off your shoes and lie down, bending your knees. Try to relax your abdominal muscles," his voice came from behind the screen as I took off my shoes. The waiting was the worst part.

I lay down on the cool couch, bent my knees as he'd asked, and stared at the white ceiling. My heart was pounding so hard that it was probably visible even through my clothes.

He moved the screen aside and approached. I wasn't looking at him — I was looking at the ceiling, but I felt his presence with every pore of my skin.

His fingers settled lightly on my abdomen. The unexpected touch sent a shiver through me, and I flinched before I could stop myself. His movements were smooth and gentle, yet remarkably confident. I felt the pleasant warmth of his hands, which, paradoxically, calmed me. The tension I'd been trying so hard to release on command began to melt away on its own, giving way to the steady rhythm of his hands.

"Does it hurt here?" he asked, pressing just below my navel.

"No."

"And here?"

"A little," I exhaled.

He nodded, continuing his examination. His fingers moved slowly, as if reading my body like a book. Strangely, I didn't want it to end.

"I'd like to offer you a massage," he said, and the phrase sounded particularly weighty in the silence.

I froze. A massage? I'd had one at the clinic before, a standard therapeutic one. But now the word took on a different, thrilling nuance.

"I prefer to work with the cause, not the symptom," he continued, giving me time to think. "I'd like to try a therapeutic procedure, Oksana. Voluntary and confidential. It's up to you."

I nodded, unable to utter a word. First, he massaged my lower back, then asked me to turn over onto my back and continued working softly on my stomach. His touches were almost hypnotic. I felt the tension release, my muscles relax, my body become limp and obedient.

And then he said:

"I'm going to give you an enema now."

"What?" escaped me in a hoarse whisper. I instinctively tried to sit up, but his hand landed on my shoulder, gently but inexorably holding me in place.

And the worst part was: I couldn't refuse. If I jumped up now and ran, it would mean there was nothing wrong with me. It would mean I had lied. He would look at me with that calm, attentive gaze and understand everything — that I was just a liar.

"Calm down. This isn't a punishment. You yourself mentioned constipation and painful menstruation. The palpation showed clear stagnation and spasm. It's a vicious circle that needs to be broken. The intestines and the pelvic muscles are locked in a spasm, feeding each other. Pills can't reach that. The procedure is necessary."

His voice remained even, professional, but it now contained the same steel as in the words "Lie down on the couch." He was absolutely serious. Not a hint of embarrassment or ambiguity. I heard him washing his hands, opening some cabinet, the rustle of gloves. Coming here for help meant letting the doctor decide how to treat me.

At his instruction, I lay on my side, pulling my knees toward my stomach. Everything happened with clinical, impersonal precision: a light massage, lubrication of the tip, his touch. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth.

"Relax," he said quietly. "The more tense you are, the more uncomfortable it will be."

I tried to relax, but it was almost impossible. A slow, controlled flow of warm water began filling my colon. The sensation was strange, unfamiliar, but not painful. Rather, something deep, internal, almost intimate in its physiology.

"Bear with it," he said, and his palm rested on my lower back, just lying there, soothing. "The water needs time to work."

I lay there and felt heaviness spreading inside me, something foreign but not hostile occupying space. The shame was overwhelming, but beneath it seethed a strange, almost animal curiosity. For his hands. For his calmness. For how confidently he managed all of this.

"Breathe deeply. How do you feel?"

"Not great. I constantly feel a spasm in my lower abdomen."

He looked down at me, his gaze freezing me in place. "Then stop locking your pelvis. You are creating the block yourself. Inhale deeply, focus your mind on the pain, and release it on the exhale."

He placed his hand just below my navel and massaged my abdomen in slow, clockwise circles, his touch grounding and strangely soothing.

"Get up. Go to the toilet."

I completed the procedure, feeling completely drained — physically and mentally. I returned to the office. Alexander Ivanovich was standing by the couch.

"Take a shower." He handed me a long white cotton T-shirt. "Here, take this. We have a change of clothes for procedures. It's clean."

I took the T-shirt, still unable to speak. I stood in the shower for a long time under the warm water, trying to pull myself together. My thoughts were jumbled. What was that? Treatment? Something else? And why didn't I leave? Why did I stay?

When I returned, clean, in that oversized T-shirt, he gestured toward the couch. The T-shirt was too big, reaching almost to my knees, and I felt strange in it — vulnerable and protected at the same time.

"Lie down. Spread your legs a little wider and bend your knees. Yes, like that." He had already changed the sheet. I didn't notice when.

I obediently lay down, feeling my cheeks burn. He washed his hands, and the characteristic sound of gloves being put on followed. He approached the couch again. The T-shirt rode up, and I knew he could see much more than a doctor was supposed to see. But he wasn't looking at me — he was looking at his hands, preparing for the procedure.

His touch changed. It became slow, deliberate. First, his palm rested on my lower abdomen, just above the pubic bone. It felt hot, even through the glove. Then, without further words, he inserted two fingers into my vagina.

I gasped. Not from pain — from surprise. From how... deep it was. And close.

"Breathe," he reminded me, and his fingers inside me began to rotate softly but deeply, massaging the tissues. "Focus on your breathing. Feel the tension release."

I tried to breathe, but each breath echoed somewhere in the place where his fingers were. The sensation was overwhelming. Not pain, but something far more complex: intimate, all-consuming, erasing the boundaries between "doctor" and "patient," between "allowed" and "forbidden."

I let out a soft sound, and he immediately placed the palm of his free hand on my stomach, pressing, creating double pressure — from the inside and from the outside.

"Quiet. Breathe. I need to assess everything."

His fingers moved smoothly and confidently, probing, pressing in different directions. My mind shut off; only sensations remained: the warmth of his hands, the depth of penetration, his focused breathing nearby. It was a strange, hypnotic dance in which I was completely at his mercy.

At some point, I stopped understanding where the procedure ended and something else began. My body responded to his touch, a strange, languid warmth spreading inside me, unrelated to treatment. I was ashamed of it, but I couldn't help myself.

"There you go," he said reassuringly, his palm pressing a fraction warmer against my stomach. "The relaxation is going well. Just a little more."

I closed my eyes and allowed myself simply to feel. His touches, his breathing, his closeness. It was wrong. It was wonderful. It was unlike anything else.

When he finished and stepped away, a heavy, ringing silence fell over the office. I lay there, unable to move. My whole body was limp, my thoughts jumbled, while a deep, heavy warmth continued to pulse low in my pelvis.

"Oksana," his voice sounded quiet but clear. "Today's procedures were aimed at eliminating the diagnosed spasms. Sometimes methods need to be direct to be effective. You endured this with dignity."

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was standing by the desk, already without gloves, looking at me. Calmly. Openly. Without a trace of embarrassment.

He paused, and his next step hung in the air between us, more intimate than any touch.

"If the pain, the tension, or any... other symptoms return, come back to me. Without excuses or notes."

I looked up at him. In his eyes was only a steady, almost clinical warmth, as if he were silently telling me: This was medicine. This was necessary. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. His certainty left no room for doubt.

He handed me the note — excuse for one day. I took it, and our fingers barely touched. His skin was warm. We said goodbye.

I left the office, closing the door tightly behind me. It was slightly cool in the empty corridor of the medical unit. I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. The fleeting scent of sandalwood followed me out. What was more unsettling remained unclear: the memory itself or the realization that it wasn't something I wanted to forget.