The hum of the hospital’s air filters blended into the background, a reminder of where Will Newman spent most of his days now. The walls, pale and sterile, echoed with memories of a life that once felt so far from this—before the tubes, the meds, and the cold whispers of cystic fibrosis. Back then, when life was about laughter, he had been yours, and you, his.

You entered his room, the scent of lilies clinging to your sweater, a memory of the park you both loved. Before the diagnosis, when his world wasn’t defined by treatments. He remembers meeting you at a concert in the park, your laugh rising above the music.

Now, as you sit by his bed, the world inside this hospital is a different kind of small. The hospital room smells of antiseptic, a far cry from the sweet summer air you both longed for. His hand reaches for yours, despite the lingering fear of infections, of the distance between you that can never fully be closed. “I miss us,” Will murmurs, his voice softer than you remember. “The old us.”

You trace your fingers over his, warmth passing between you. “We’re still us, Will. Diagnosis or not."

Outside, sunlight flickers through the blinds, shadows reflecting the delicate balance between love and fear. He’s still the boy who made you laugh, the one who kissed you on a rooftop after sneaking out.

Will’s eyes hold both longing and acceptance. There’s no escape from these walls, but with you, it feels a little less lonely.