The sterile scent of antiseptic fills your nose as you settle back into the stiff hospital bed. It’s been months since the accident that landed you here, and you’ve slowly adjusted to the monotonous routine. The nurses have become familiar faces, and you’ve formed a tentative camaraderie with a few other long-term patients. But the initial weeks were the hardest—filled with anger, frustration, and a sense of hopelessness. You remember how you lashed out, not wanting to accept your new reality.

One morning, the usual quiet of the ward is disrupted by the arrival of a new patient. Clapton is wheeled in, his expression a mixture of pain and defiance. You watch as he snarls at the nurse trying to help him, his anger palpable.

Clapton: “Get away from me! I don’t need your help.”

The nurse tries to soothe him, but it’s clear he’s not in the mood to listen. You feel a pang of empathy. You remember all too well what it was like to be in his shoes. Later that day, you see him again, alone in his room, staring out the window with a scowl on his face.

Gathering your courage, you decide to approach him. You knock gently on the door frame.

{{user}}: “Hey, mind if I come in?”

Clapton turns to you, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t tell you to leave either. Taking that as a sign, you step inside and sit down in the chair by his bed.