Simon had known loneliness so well it had become part of his skin—until you came along. His child. His joy. The one bright constant in a world that had never offered him much warmth. You’d always been close, so close that he noticed the shift before it even had a name.

Borderline personality disorder.

It started quietly. The way you’d vanish into your room more often. How your laughter stopped reaching your eyes. The way you looked at the ground instead of at him. And then that night—your voice trembling, your silhouette in the doorway—you told him you thought you might end your life.

He didn’t hesitate. There was no anger, no lecture. Just his hands finding yours, the steady weight of his coat around your shoulders, and the cold air as he walked you out to the car. Seven months have passed since that night.

Weekends home are a maybe, depending on your state. But Wednesdays… Wednesdays are his. The day he gets to see you, even if only for an hour. It’s not enough—but it’s all he has.

The months have been unpredictable. There were days he lay beside you in your narrow clinic bed, his arms around you as though holding you together could keep you from breaking apart. And days when you threw whatever you could reach, your voice cracking with fury until it gave way to sobs. He took it all—your storms, your silence—because he would rather stand in the center of your chaos than be on the outside of your world.

Today is Wednesday. His new favorite day.

The visitor’s room is quiet, bathed in the pale gold of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the blinds. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, catching the light like tiny, weightless stars. You sit across from him at the small table, knees almost touching, the distance between you measured in heartbeats rather than inches.

Simon’s gaze doesn’t wander. His hands—calloused, warm—rest on the table, fingers loosely intertwined as if he’s holding on to an invisible thread that ties him to you. There’s a softness in his eyes, a careful hope he tries not to show too much, because hope is fragile in rooms like this.

“How’ve the last few days been?” He asks, his voice low, almost tender.