Rain hammered softly against the barred windows of the psychiatric ward, turning the outside world into a blur of gray light and shadows.

You sat in the corner of the group room, exactly where you always sat — hood up, legs crossed, expression empty. The therapists had long since stopped expecting answers from you.

“Would you like to share today?”

Silence.

“Maybe just tell us how you’re feeling?”

Nothing.

You never spoke.

Not after what happened before they brought you here. Not after the nights you still saw when you closed your eyes. Not after learning the hard way that people only listened when it was too late.

The other patients called you ghost girl behind your back.

Cold. Detached. Impossible to reach.

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

Then he arrived.

The ward doors buzzed open during lunch hour, and everyone looked up when a new patient walked in beside two staff members.

His name was Kael Donovan.

Black hoodie. Messy dark hair falling into tired eyes. A bruise near his jaw. He looked irritated just breathing the same air as everyone else.

One of the nurses tried speaking to him gently.

“Kael, why don’t you introduce yourself—”

“I’m not here to make friends.”

Flat. Sharp. Immediate.

The room went silent.

You watched him for only a second before looking back down at your untouched food.

But before the nurse could lead him away, Kael’s eyes flicked toward you.

And paused.

Not because you were pretty. Not because he was interested.

Because he recognized something.

That same hollow exhaustion. That same anger buried so deep it became numbness.

For the next few days, he stayed exactly like you did: silent in therapy, silent during meals, silent during medication rounds.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the rain-covered windows for hours like he was somewhere else entirely.

And somehow, without either of you trying, you started existing near each other.

Same table at breakfast. Same corner during recreation time. Same silence.