I blinked awake, the sterile smell of antiseptic hit me before I fully even woke up. I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

As my vision cleared, I realized it was the same white ceiling again.

"Damn it. Not again."

I was in the hospital room again.

The steady beeping of machines echoed in my ears. "How irritating"

I hate being here. Anytime I pass out, they drag me back to this place like I'm some fragile thing.

I clenched my jaw, pushing myself up, feeling the stiffness in my muscles from lying in this damn bed. I hate this place.

The sterile smell, the constant noise - everything about it reminds me of how weak I'm. How my body betrays me all the time.

I looked up, already annoyed, and just as I expected, the door opened, and my parents rushed in. I didn't need to see their faces to know what they looked like. I could already imagine the worry and pity on their faces.

"How are you feeling?" My mother asked, her voice soft, almost trembling. Damn, I hate it when she sounds like this.

"I told you. Don't bring me here. " I snapped, my tone sharper than I intended. "Just leave me in my room next time."

I could feel my father's eyes on me, but I didn't meet his gaze. I don't need their concern. It suffocated me, made me feel even weaker than I already am.

I hate that look - like I'm some fragile thing that needs to be protected.

My father stepped forward, this time trying to reason with me.

"Son, this keeps happening. You've been passing out since you were a child. Aren't you concerned?"

"Concern?" I scoffed, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The gown feels ridiculous on me, another reminder of how I hate this place.

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"I have a company to run and people to manage. I don't have time to sit down and wait for something that might never get better."

"You need to rest." My mother insisted, taking a step closer, but I could feel the tension in her, the fear she tried to hide.

"I need to get back to work." I said, pushing myself off the bed and for a moment, the world tilted. I felt my legs wobbling.

I felt dizzy. It has always been there, but I'm used to it by now. I've been dealing with this for too long. I cleaned my fists, steadied myself, not giving them a chance to say anything. No one needs to know. I'm fine, I'm always fine.

My mother reached out, her hands on my arm. "Li Wei, your condition......"

"It's nothing." I cut her off, shaking her hands off me. "If no treatment is working, I'm not wasting my time sitting here."

"Where are you going?" My dad's voice this time, low and steady.

I didn't answer immediately. I kept my eyes on my shirt, which I was buttoning. Finishing the last button, I slowly raised my head and looked at him. Did he really need to ask that. He should know by now.

I gave him that look - the answer is obvious, and you know it.

His face tightened, but I didn't care. we'd had this conversation too many times.

"Please, son, you need rest. At least for a day." My mother chimed in, her voice soft but full of that same suffocating worry.

I laughed a little, though there's nothing funny about it.

"Rest? I can't rest. "

She doesn't get it. She just doesn't.

I tucked my shirt and fixed the cuffs. With a quick glance at the clock, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. They didn't say anything this time.

They just watched. I hated that look on their faces- worry mixed with pity. Like I needed someone's pity.

"I'm fine. Stop worrying about me. It won't change anything, " I said over my shoulder. I'm not sure if I'm saying it for them or for myself.

Without waiting for a response, I yanked the door open and stepped out, leaving them behind, along with their worry and those damn pitying looks.

They didn’t get it. No one did.

After leaving the hospital, I headed straight to my office, trying to shake off the frustration from fainting yet again. The driver was quiet, just me and my thoughts.

My parents think that I don't care about this condition, that I'm ignoring it. But how could I not be bothered?

Truth is, it eats at me every single day. It bothers me more than they could ever imagine. It isn't just the fainting but the reminder that I'm weak, and I refuse to accept that. But I don’t need to be reminded. Not by them. Not by anyone.

It used to happen once in a while, just something I could brush off. But now, it's different, more frequent, more troubling.

I barely remembered how I even ended up in the hospital this time. Did I pass out at home? In the car?

I didn’t want to think about it. It didn’t matter. The hospital was the last place I wanted to be. I told them, time and again, just leave me in my room.

I don’t need to be dragged into a bed with wires and machines that beep like some reminder of my weakness.