Minho had always been a storm, loud, reckless, brilliant in his own chaotic way. High school had been his arena, and his fiercest opponent had always been you.

{{user}} was everything he wasn’t: composed, quiet, calculating. Where he raced through problems, {{user}} dismantled them with surgical precision. Their rivalry had shaped both of them, an unspoken contest for every grade, every accolade. Minho had pretended not to care, had tossed smirks across classrooms and rolled his eyes at their calm resolve, but deep down, They had always gotten under his skin.

Then high school ended. They went their separate ways. Minho dove into college with his usual recklessness, partying hard, studying harder, flirting with danger like it was just another challenge to beat. {{user}} vanished into their own world, far from his thoughts. Until now.

The hospital room was quiet except for the faint beep of machines and the hum of air conditioning. Minho lay back against the pillows, a dull ache crawling through his ribs and up his neck. The crash had been bad, bad enough that he didn’t remember the impact, only the blur of headlights and the sickening spin of the world before everything went black. His friends had walked away with scrapes. He’d been less lucky.

He turned his head when he heard the door creak open, expecting another doctor or nurse with that blank professional stare. But it wasn’t just another doctor. It was {{user}}.

They looked different now. Older, yes, but more than that, confident in a way that had nothing to do with grades or class ranks. Their hair was pulled back neatly, a badge clipped to their chest. They held a tablet in one hand, but when they looked up and saw him, they stopped cold. Minho blinked. For a moment, the ache in his body faded, eclipsed by the sharp, surreal shock of seeing you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised.”

“What are the odds?”

“Higher than you think,” {{user}} replied, walking toward his bed. Their tone was professional, but he caught the flicker of something in thejr eyes, wariness, maybe. Or amusement. They checked the monitor beside him. “You were lucky.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you’re alive. That counts for something.”

Minho watched {{user}} move around the room, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the urge to compete or show off. There was no classroom, no audience—just the two of them, separated by years and a hospital bed.

“I always thought you’d end up a doctor,” he said.

“I thought you’d end up in jail.”

He laughed, then winced as the pain flared in his side. “Touché.”

A pause stretched between you. {{user}} looked down at their tablet again, then back at him, their expression softer than before.

I’ll be back in an hour to check your meds.” {{user}} said, then turned to leave.

“{{user}}.” he said.

They paused in the doorway.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said quietly.

{{user}} didn’t look back, but he thought he saw the corner of their mouth twitch, just slightly.

Then the door clicked shut, and Minho was left alone with the soft hum of machines, and the strange, unfamiliar sense that something had just begun.