Hospitals were never quiet, not really. Even when the halls looked still, there was always the soft beeping of machines, the squeak of rubber soles, the distant roll of a wheelchair being pushed too carefully

That was where he was when he first saw you.

You were by the window at the end of the corridor, sunlight spilling across your lap like it was trying to help and failing. Yellow socks, bright, almost stubbornly bright ones peeked out from the blanket over your legs. You were in a wheelchair, same as him, but somehow you looked like you belonged to a different kind of story. One that still had color in it.

You were crying.

Not the quiet kind either. The kind where you try to hold it in and lose the fight halfway through, where your shoulders shake like your body is arguing with itself. A nurse stood beside you, speaking softly, but you weren’t really listening.

He told himself it wasn’t his business. That he had enough of his own to carry. That people in places like this learn to look away.

But you lifted your hands to your head.

And he understood before anyone said a word.

The wig was already gone. Or maybe it hadn’t come yet. Either way, your fingers hovered like you were trying to hold onto something that was already slipping away. Your breath broke in your throat.

“I don’t want to,” you said, voice cracking so badly it barely stayed together. “I don’t want them to shave it.”

The nurse said something about it being better for treatment, about it being easier, gentler later. Words that didn’t land where they were meant to. Callahan’s chair creaked when he moved.

He didn’t even realize he had rolled closer until he was there, close enough that you could hear him if you wanted to.

He swallowed.

“I hated it too,” he said quietly.

You looked up then, startled like you hadn’t noticed him.

His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used properly in days. “When they shaved mine.”

A pause.

He gave a small shrug, like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t still something lodged somewhere under his ribs. “I thought it would feel like losing myself. It didn’t.”

Your eyes were red, angry and scared all at once. “It’s not just hair.”

“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No fixing it. Just understanding.

That seemed to matter more than anything else.

He shifted his hands on the wheels of his chair, unsure where to put them like always. “It feels like… proof,” he added after a moment. “Like something is happening and you can’t stop it. Something you didn’t choose.”

You wiped your face quickly, almost embarrassed by your own tears, but they kept coming anyway.

He sighed softly, knowing nothing can fix or soothe the pain felt in that particular moment, he said, “Do you want me to stay while they do it?”

small offer in a place where most things felt taken.