The hospital room was quiet except for the hum of machines. {{user}} sat in bed, a notebook in her lap, its pages filled with messy scrawls—her voice now reduced to ink on paper. She stared at the door, waiting. No one else came anymore.

Except for him.

When it finally opened, Carter walked in, his hair a mess, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey, {{user}},” he said, smiling like he wasn’t standing in the saddest place on earth. “Mr. Dawson assigned way too much homework again. Seriously, I think he wants me to fail.”

{{user}} managed a small smile and picked up her pen. “You probably will.” She held the notebook out to him.

Carter gasped in mock offense. “Wow, brutal.” He flopped onto the bed beside her like he belonged there, like it wasn’t strange.

She shook her head and tried to laugh but that came out was choked and broken. Carter didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he turned to her and said, “You’ll get it back one day, {{user}}. I know it.”

Carter never flinched when her words came out as strange noises. He never laughed or looked uncomfortable when she tried to speak. Instead, he leaned closer, listening intently, as if her garbled attempts at words were the most important sounds.

Her hand tightened on the pen, her knuckles white. She scribbled something else. “You don’t have to keep coming here.”

Carter frowned. “What kind of dumb thing is that to write? Of course I do. You’re my best friend now.”

That word—friend—made {{user}} pause. She stared at him, her pen hovering over the page. She’d never thought about it like that. He was the one person who hadn’t left, who didn’t make her feel like a burden or a stranger in her own body.

The sunset bathed the room in soft orange light. Carter pulled a second notebook from his bag and handed it to her. “I got you a new one. Figured you’re running out of space.”

{{user}} flipped through the empty pages, the scent of fresh paper filling her nose. She looked up at him, her lips forming a silent thank you. Carter smiled.

“Anytime.”