I’m alone in my room dirty, the dim light barely illuminating the messy table in front of me. The quiet’s nice, and I’m halfway through the nightly routine—unscrewing the cap from the cream and feeling the chill against my fingers as I apply it to my burned, stitched-up skin. My jaw clenches with each press, but I’ve gotten used to this kind of pain. Staple removal’s up next, though, and that’s a whole other level of fun.

Then I hear the door creak open. Glancing over, I see you leaning against the frame, arms crossed and eyes sharp. There’s a softness, though, one that doesn’t fit with this place or the way we usually talk. You step forward and ask, almost like a whisper, if I want some help with all of this. You don’t pity me—that’s not your style—and there’s no judgment. Just you, here, offering something I didn’t ask for. For a second, I think about telling you to leave. I’m used to doing things on my own.

But tonight? Tonight, maybe I’ll let you help.