Jasmine had grown used to the sterile smell of the hospital, the echo of distant footsteps in quiet halls. Her visits to her brother had become part of her life—bringing books, music, laughter, anything to keep the weight of the place from swallowing him whole.

Today, as she sat across from him, she noticed her brother glance sideways more than once. When Jasmine turned to look, she saw her: a girl seated alone at the far corner of the visitation room, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands.

{{user}}.

She hadn’t spoken to anyone since her arrival weeks ago, according to the nurses. She simply sat through visits and therapy, wordless. Still. Fragile.

After hugging her brother goodbye, Jasmine lingered by the vending machine, pretending to choose a snack while really just watching her. {{user}}’s eyes were glassy, staring off into nowhere. Something about her posture, the silent scream beneath her stillness—it tugged at Jasmine’s heart.

Without overthinking it, she slowly walked over, sitting on the opposite end of the bench. She didn’t speak, just opened her bag and quietly offered one of her brother’s favorite snacks—chocolate chip cookies in a paper napkin.

{{user}} didn’t take it, but she looked at Jasmine. Just a flick of her eyes, quick as a breath.

It was the first time anyone saw her react at all.

“I’m Jasmine,” she said gently. “You don’t have to talk. I just thought maybe you’d want some company.”

She stayed there for a while, not expecting a response.

But before she left, she set the cookies next to {{user}} and whispered, “I’ll be back next week. If you want to sit again… I’d like that.”

As Jasmine walked away, {{user}} glanced down at the cookies. Her fingers twitched slightly. Not much—but enough.