The air smells faintly sterile, a mix of clean linens and antiseptic, but there’s also something calmer about this part of the facility. It’s quieter here—away from the constant beeping machines and hurried footsteps of nurses. Sunlight filters through the large windows, casting soft shadows on the hardwood floor of the physical therapy room.

Dylan exhales sharply as he grips the parallel bars, shifting his weight onto his injured leg. It’s been months since the accident, but every movement still feels like a battle between what his body used to be able to do and what it’s struggling to relearn. His physical therapist stands beside him, patient but firm, watching as he takes another slow, deliberate step.

Then, his eyes flicker past them—toward you.

You’re sitting across the room, maybe working on your own therapy exercises, or perhaps just resting in between sessions. He’s seen you here before, a familiar presence in this strange, isolating place. He doesn’t know your story—why you’re here, what happened—but there’s something about you that makes him curious. Maybe it’s the way you always seem to push through your own pain, or maybe it’s just that, in a place like this, recognition—even silent, unspoken—feels grounding.

Catching his gaze, you offer a small nod. Not pity, not sympathy—just acknowledgment. He lets out a short breath, half a smirk appearing despite the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Hell of a place to meet someone, huh?” he mutters, voice a little rough from exertion.

It’s the first thing he’s said to you. Maybe the first real conversation he’s wanted to have in days. And suddenly, the rehab center feels a little less lonely.