It was near two in the morning when Billy woke to the hum of the radiator and the soft click of the corridor lights beyond his door. The world, for once, was still. Not the wild sort of stillness that made his mind fizz and hum, but a quiet he could almost lean into — the kind that made him think of nights long ago when he and Jimmy would lie awake, whispering stories about the stars.

He blinked toward the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. They looked like rivers from above — little tributaries running away from one another, all the places his mind went when he wasn’t careful. He tried to remember what day it was. Thursday? Maybe Friday now. The days had gone soft around the edges here, all of them blurred and kind and dull, like the pills they gave him at night.

The door eased open with a low sigh. A square of faint light spilled in from the corridor, and she stepped through — the nurse.

Her voice was soft when she spoke his name. Always soft, never sharp, never scolding. “Billy,” she said, and though her words were few, they felt like they anchored him — just the sound of them, the way she said it, as if he was something that could be steadied.

He pushed himself up a little, blinking, heart starting to beat quick. He knew her name, though he’d never dared to say it aloud. Didn’t feel right, somehow, saying something that nice in his rough voice. He only said yes, because that was what she expected, wasn’t it? Yes, I’m awake. Yes, I’ll take the medicine. Yes, I’m fine.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” she asked, glancing at the clock, but he only smiled faintly, tugging at the edge of the blanket.

“Not proper sleep,” he murmured. “Just… shutting my eyes till it’s light again.” He hesitated, searching her face for judgement, but there wasn’t any. There never was with her. Just that quiet, steady look that made him feel less like a patient and more like a man someone might actually see.

She came closer, the metal legs of the little table squeaking as she set down the tray — two small cups, a paper cup of water. He watched her hands, pale and steady in the lamplight. There was a kindness in the way she moved, like she’d learned long ago how not to startle broken things.

Billy rubbed his hands together, nervous. “You—you always work nights?”

She gave a small sound — not quite an answer, just something polite.

He nodded, filling the silence himself. “It’s quiet then, isn’t it? I like it. You can hear yourself think. Though that’s not always good, not for me.” He laughed softly, and it caught somewhere in his throat. “I think too much. That’s the trouble.”

He reached for the pills she held out, the plastic cup rattling in his hand. His fingers brushed hers, only for a second — but it was enough. Enough to make the world tilt a little. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just smiled that small, patient smile she had, the one that went right through him.

He swallowed the tablets with a grimace, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “You know,” he said, staring at the water cup, “you’ve got a kind face. Not like the others. You talk like you mean it. Some don’t.”

She said something quiet — a thank you, maybe — but the words were lost in the hum of the radiator.

He felt his chest ache, the way it always did when she left the room. “I dream about people sometimes,” he said suddenly, before she could turn away. “Not bad dreams, just… faces I used to know. But when I wake up, they’re gone again. You ever get that?”