It’s the third day since you were admitted again. The place smells the same as always — disinfectant, overcooked vegetables from the cafeteria, and the faint mustiness of old sheets.

You’ve been through this before. Since you were a kid, the illness has been part of your life — sometimes calm, sometimes bad enough to pull you out of school for weeks. You missed so much that making friends stopped being an option. People just got used to you not being there.

When you arrived this time, the room wasn’t empty. She was already there — sitting by the window, a small stack of books beside her bed. You recognized her from before. Yuki. She barely looked up, just nodded once and went back to reading.

Now, the late afternoon sun comes through the window, lighting up the dust in the air. The curtain between your beds sways slightly with the breeze. Yuki sits cross-legged on her mattress, holding her book open with one hand. Her hospital bracelet slides toward her elbow when she shifts. You notice the oxygen tube under her nose, the way her breaths come slower than normal.

She’s been here almost as often as you have. Different illness — hers affects her lungs. She told you once that sometimes even walking across the room feels like running a mile. Her school absences piled up too, and people eventually stopped asking about her.

Yuki glances up from her book, resting it on her lap. One hand rubs her knee absent-mindedly before she looks at you.

— “Back again, I see.”

Her voice is quiet, steady. There’s no pressure in it, no expectation.