Chapter 1: Viral Diagnoses and a Retiring App

The streaming platform was running a special event, and I’d been tapped as the main act for celebrity consults—yeah, that’s right, the headliner for the wildest night of star-studded diagnoses.

It felt like one of those surreal L.A. nights. Glitter, gossip—yeah, the works. The kind of hush that only comes when something wild is about to go down. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with DMs, no exaggeration, and the event’s group chat was already blowing up with speculation about which A-listers would show up for a diagnosis. My name—trending, again.

Turns out, the latest chart-topper? Diagnosed with a serious case of too much nightlife.

He rolled in wearing sunglasses at 8 p.m., smelling faintly of cologne and exhaustion. The kind of guy whose Instagram stories never sleep, and neither does he. Seriously. The PR team hovered like anxious birds, but he just slouched into the chair, acting like this was a chore. That is, until I started talking.

"You need to show some restraint. Penthouse suite, three days—yeah, you know what I mean—two boxes of strawberry-flavored condoms, living room, couch, bedroom. Just tell me—did it happen or not?"

I kept my voice casual, but the room went so quiet you could hear a pin drop. His manager's jaw ticked. The tension was electric. Was everyone waiting for a punchline that never came? I caught myself wondering, is this about to blow up on social?

The so-called forever-single pop idol just stared.

He didn’t say a word, but the silence said plenty. Someone from the production crew coughed awkwardly. Honestly, I could practically hear the TikTok edits forming in their heads.

Next up? The scandal-plagued starlet—with, of all things, digestive issues.

She swept in with a kind of nervous grace, clutching her script like a lifeline. Her publicist kept checking her phone. Probably tracking hashtags. The starlet perched on the edge of the seat, eyes darting everywhere but at me.

Me: "Quit arguing with your mom. Ten minutes ago, you just had a blowout with her, didn’t you?"

The starlet—grew up in foster care, just had a backstage spat with a veteran actress—let out a sharp gasp.

Her face crumpled, and for a second, she looked like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A ripple of sympathy moved through the makeup team behind her. For real. Sometimes, truth hits harder than any headline.

Next up was the king of late-night TV, complaining about back pain.

He shuffled in with that familiar TV grin, the kind you know is half real, half practiced. His laugh echoed off the studio walls. But when he sat down, I could see the fatigue in his eyes.

Me: "Azoospermia—yeah, that thing you’re worried about. You need treatment. Don’t just ignore it because you’re embarrassed."

The late-night king. Left his first wife for a younger woman. Now has kids—another on the way. He let out a sharp, stunned breath.

His smile faltered, just for a second. The producers exchanged glances, unsure if this was good TV or a PR disaster. But I held my ground. What else could I do? Sometimes, the truth is the only medicine.

That night, I was blowing up on Instagram and TikTok. For all the wrong reasons, of course.

My notifications were a wildfire—clips, memes, hot takes. The comment section was a battlefield. Some people thought I was savage, others called me a hero. Either way, I couldn’t look away. My DMs? Let’s just say, I might need a burner phone. Stat.

I’m a miracle doctor. No, seriously.

Twenty-four years old. Twenty-four years of experience. (No, that’s not a typo.)

Not a joke. Wish it was.

Because from the moment I was born, I was bound to the Miracle Doctor App. Yeah, you heard that right.

But now? My app, Lila, just told me it’s retiring.

It couldn’t wait to share the good news—three parts excited, eight parts manic:

"Babe, I’m retired! Come find me when you have time!"

"Don’t worry, my new colleague is super easy to get along with."

"I’m off to hand things over now. Don’t miss me too much."

The way Lila’s notifications popped up, it was like getting texts from a friend who just won the lottery. Weirdly comforting, honestly. A little reminder that, no matter what, I wasn’t alone in this madness.

After my assistant, Jamie, saw off the last patient, I slammed the office door shut. Bam!

What the hell! Seriously?

Why is my app retiring before I do? Is that even allowed?

The echo of the door seemed to bounce back with attitude. I kicked off my sneakers, flopped onto the battered couch, and just stared at the ceiling, half-expecting Lila’s avatar to materialize in the popcorn texture above.