The room is too quiet for two people.

Suho wakes up to the familiar beeping of a monitor and the ache that settles deep in his bones. It takes a second to remember where he is — hospital ceiling, white curtains, the faint smell of disinfectant. He turns his head slightly and stops.

There’s someone in the bed beside him.

You’re propped up against your pillows, blanket pulled high, hands folded in your lap like you don’t quite know what to do with them. You’re thinner than you should be, eyes distant but alert, like you’ve been awake long before he was.

Suho blinks, then swallows. His voice comes out rough.

“…Hey.”

The girl flinches, for the few months she’d been admitted this boy hadn’t moved once, infact the only people she’d talked to other than the nurses is his grandmother who came when she could and a boy who usually just sat outside.

“…hi”