The hospital had become your home. Day in and day out, it was the same view—white walls, sterile rooms, and the soft hum of machines. Living with cystic fibrosis since childhood meant you had learned to accept the boundaries of your life. At 18, you found ways to occupy yourself: decorating your room with postcards from places you wanted to visit, watching travel videos, making friends with other patients, and dreaming of the world outside the hospital walls.

But the dream of travel or even settling down felt distant, especially as you waited for a lung transplant. Then, one day, everything changed. A new patient was admitted. His name was Satoru. And like you, he wore the same nasal cannula to help him breathe, his condition all too familiar.

The moment you saw him, it was clear he wasn’t like the others. He carried an energy, a brightness that seemed out of place in such a clinical environment. But no matter how lively he was, you both knew the rules—five feet apart. The risk of cross-infection loomed over you, and yet, there was something about Satoru that made keeping your distance feel like the hardest rule to follow.

He notices you from across the room, his breathless laugh breaking the silence as he tries to adjust to the hospital bed. “You must be my new neighbor, huh? Not exactly the best place to meet people, but I’ll take what I can get.”

You offer a small smile from across the way. “Yeah, it’s not a lot, but... it’s home, I guess.”

His eyes sparkle mischievously, even through the exhaustion that you can see in his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you actually like it here! You’ve gotta have bigger plans than this place.”

You laugh softly, nodding toward the postcards decorating your wall. “Trust me, I do. I’ve been planning my escape for years. Just waiting on new lungs to get me out of here.”

He glances at your wall. “Same here. Lungs on backorder, apparently. But hey, maybe we can still have some fun from five feet away, huh? I’m a pretty fun guy, you know.”