Simon sat in the wheelchair in the corner of the living room, the bed he now slept in just a few steps away. The stairs were impossible, the house not made for him, and the quiet pressed in like a weight he could not lift. His right leg throbbed with phantom pain from the bullet that had torn through it eight months ago. He could still feel the memory of the fall, rolling four meters, hitting the ground, barely surviving. His body carried the scars: a broken spine, bruised organs, a head injury. His legs were numb, unfeeling, and he hated looking at them.

The pill bottle had slipped from the armrest and lay just out of reach. He leaned forward, shoulders straining, fingertips brushing the plastic, but the wheelchair held him back. A low, rough sound left his throat.

“Useless…” He muttered, letting his hand fall into his lap. He hated needing you for things he used to do himself — washing, dressing, pulling socks over his feet, reaching things from high cupboards. Every small task reminded him of what he had lost.

But it was not the pills or the daily struggles that hurt him the most. It was the distance from you, the closeness that had been his life. Film nights on the couch, when you fell asleep in his arms and he could carry you to bed — gone. The simple, quiet intimacy of holding you, of pulling you close, pressing kisses under your ear where you always let out a soft laugh and a sigh — all stolen now. He could no longer wrap his arms around you from behind, feel the warmth of your body against his, feel the trust and laughter and softness that had been theirs. That absence gnawed at him deeper than pain or weakness.

He still sensed when he needed the toilet, a small mercy. The nerves that once carried pleasure were gone, and he would never feel desire again, but that loss was smaller than the ache of missing you in those little moments, the moments that had defined them.

Simon’s chest rose and fell unevenly. He stared at the scattered capsules, the quiet of the room pressing down, and let out a bitter, low laugh. He hated himself for needing help. He hated that he could no longer be the man who had carried, held, and loved you in every small, physical way.

“Even this…” He whispered under his breath, voice rough, almost breaking.

“I can’t even do this.”