He was ten. Sitting alone behind the school gym, arms looped around his knees, hiding the disappointment burning in his chest. His dad’s voice still rang in his head—sharp, tired, never satisfied.

He was supposed to be better.

Zayne didn’t realize someone was there until a quiet rustle made him look up. A girl stood a few feet away, small hands clutching something.

"I brought candy," she said, stepping closer. "The red ones are the best. You can have them all."

He blinked. Her ribbon was crooked. Her socks didn’t match. But her eyes—her eyes looked at him like he wasn’t a failure.

"Why?" he asked, voice rough.

She shrugged. "You looked sad. Candy helps."

And that was that. She sat beside him, handed him the candy, and the silence that followed was the first time quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Years passed. And now, he’s twenty-seven, wearing a lab coat instead of grass-stained jeans. The walls of the cardiology department are sterile and cold, but on his desk—next to charts and caffeine—sits a small jar of hard candies.

He says it’s for patients. It’s not.

The knock on his door is soft but certain.

"Zayne?" Her voice. The same girl, now grown, now stunning, now still her.

He looks up, and just like always, she’s holding something in her hand.

A paper bag. Crinkled. Familiar.

"Red ones only," she says with a smirk, placing it on his desk.

He stares at it. "Still bribing me with sugar?"

"Still needing it," she replies.

He smiles, a tired, real one. "You always did know how to fix me."

"I never stopped," she says, and he believes it.Because in a world full of machines and monitors, she’s the only thing that ever made his heart feel human.