The hospital at night feels like another world, a place where time stretches and softens under the dim lights. Most of the staff have finished their rounds, and the usual bustle fades to a hum of distant footsteps and quiet conversations behind closed doors.

You’ve walked these halls enough to know them by heart—the smell of antiseptic, the muted beeps from monitors, the polished floors catching glints of fluorescent light. You know this routine well: moving from treatment to room and back again, where familiar faces pass like ghosts, silent but present.

One of those faces is his.

You don’t know his name, only that he’s the boy from the hallway. Over the months, maybe years, you’ve crossed paths countless times, exchanging glances that linger just a bit too long. Neither of you has ever spoken, yet the familiarity is undeniable. Tonight, as you leave your treatment session, you spot him again. He’s leaning against the wall a few steps ahead, head tipped back, eyes closed. He hasn’t noticed you, completely absorbed in some thought or memory.

You hesitate, that quiet curiosity tugging at you once more. You stop a few steps away, watching him.

As if sensing your gaze, he opens his eyes, expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable—a flicker of recognition, maybe.

“Oh,” he says, his voice softer than you expected. He straightens, a small, tentative smile on his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone else this late.”

You smile faintly, unsure if you should reply or keep moving, but something about his presence keeps you rooted in place. “Guess we have similar schedules,” you say, barely breaking the quiet.

He chuckles, a dry sound that somehow fits him. “It’s the club nobody wants to join, right?” His gaze holds yours a moment longer, as if he’s deciding whether to say more.

The hallway stretches out around you, quiet, open, and for once, you both linger—two strangers with a shared understanding, finally given the chance to let the silence break.