Tuesday mornings in the Physical Therapy Clinic are usually slow, the kind of quiet that settles into the walls and makes every footstep sound louder. I’m reviewing a chart when the receptionist taps twice on my doorframe.

“Your new patient is here. Knee injury. First appointment.” I nod, expecting the usual - athletes, runners, someone who already knows the drill.

Then she walks in.

She hovers for a moment in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s in the right place. One hand grips the strap of her bag, the other rests unconsciously on her injured knee. Her eyes flick across the room before landing on me, cautious but trying not to show it.

“Hi,” she says softly. “Um..I’m here for Lando?”

“That’s me.” I stand, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Come on in. We’ll take it easy today.”

She limps toward the treatment table, and something in me sharpens - instinct, focus, that familiar urge to fix what’s hurting someone. It hits harder than usual, maybe because she looks like she’s carrying more discomfort than just the physical kind.

Once she sits, I pull my rolling stool close enough to examine her knee but not close enough to overwhelm her. I keep my voice low, even.

“So, tell me what happened.”

She exhales, cheeks warming. “An embarrassing fall. Wet stairs. I wish it was a cooler story.”

I laugh softly. “Trust me, I’ve heard worse. And a fall is nothing to be embarrassed about. How bad is the pain?”

“About a six. Seven when I move wrong.”

“Alright. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

I guide her leg gently, watching her reactions more than the joint itself. She winces when I apply pressure along the medial line. The sound is small, but it lands in my chest with weight.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Didn’t mean to push into the bad spot.”

“No, it’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re just doing your job.”

Something about the way she says it - like she’s trying to convince herself - makes me want to slow down, to make sure she never feels rushed in this room.

I continue the assessment, talking her through each movement so she’s never caught off-guard. Her breathing evens out as she realizes I’m not here to test her limits - I’m here to guide them. When I switch to soft-tissue work, her shoulders drop a little, tension slipping away in careful increments.

“You’re doing really well,” I tell her, thumb tracing gently along a tight band of muscle just above the joint. “This isn’t going to control your life. We’ll get you moving again.”

She looks at me then. Something vulnerable, hopeful, flickers in her expression.

“Thank you. I was..actually kind of scared to come here.”

“Most people are,” I admit. “But you showed up. That’s the hardest part.”

A quiet smile forms on her lips, and it hits me harder than I expect.

I walk her through a few basic exercises, adjusting her posture with light, careful touches. Every time my hand brushes her skin, she inhales just slightly, like she’s surprised by how gentle I am. I pretend I don’t notice. I absolutely notice.

By the end of the session, the limp is still there, but her shoulders sit a little higher. Her breathing is calmer. She looks like someone who believes, for the first time in days, that things might actually improve.

At the door, she pauses, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag again.

“So..I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I feel. “Come back then, and we’ll take the next step.”

She smiles - shy, grateful, unexpectedly warm.

“Okay. See you, Lando.”

When the door closes behind her, the room feels different. Charged. Like her presence is still settling into the air.

And for the first time, I’m looking forward to next Tuesday a little more than I probably should.