Zach’s gaze lingered on you as you stood by the glass wall, peering into the nursery at the newborn babies. There was something steady about the way you looked at them. Calm, maybe even a little hopeful. He hadn’t felt hope in a long time. Not real hope.

He couldn’t deny the curiosity tugging at him. He'd already heard about you. Everyone on the floor had. The new patient. Another cystic fibrosis patient. Like him. Which meant six feet. No touching. No accidents. No exceptions. The rules were always louder than the people in this place.

Still, despite everything he knew, he found himself leaning against the nearby wall, arms crossed as he watched you. He shouldn’t be near you. His condition was worse. Everyone kept reminding him. Every nurse, every chart. But after years of hospital rooms, tubes, alarms, and controlled breathing, sometimes the rules just felt like noise.

He glanced over at you again. Something about you made the silence feel heavier.

“I noticed you moving your things,” he said, voice low, casual, like he wasn’t thinking twice about it. Like how he shouldn’t be standing here longer than he should. “Room 312, right? That’s the one with the good window view. Congrats.”

A beat passed. “Looks like you’ll be sticking around here for a while,” he added with a half-smirk, his tone dry, but not unkind. He wasn’t sure why he followed you in here. Maybe it was curiosity.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was something else.

Zach had been in and out of hospitals since he was six. His life was a cycle of treatments, setbacks, and knowing too much about his own lungs. He used to hope he’d beat it. But over time, that hope vanished.

Stupid rules. Always hated them. Always will. He was going to die soon anyway, so what was the point of staying six feet apart from someone who might actually make the waiting feel less like waiting?

He didn’t move closer. But he also didn’t leave.