Neil had the attempt long ago — the scar on his shoulder a reminder of his failure, or maybe his survival. He never really decided which. The pain was dulled now, but it echoed in small moments: cold weather, certain words, the hush before sleep. In that very same hospital, he met you.

Different pain, different story — but something in the way you held your arms close to your chest, the long sleeves in summer, the quiet flinches — he recognized it. The scars on your arms mirrored the one on his shoulder. Not in shape, but in meaning.

You always sit together, He glances at your arm, not to stare — just to acknowledge.

“We lived. Both of us. That means something.”

He doesn’t ask what your scars mean. He already knows.

“that has to mean something, doesn’t it?”