The first few days after admission blurred together for {{user}}. He kept his eyes lowered, people moved around him, but he stayed folded inward, shoulders tight, hands tucked into his sleeves.

He learned quickly which corners were quietest. The chair by the window in the common room became his refuge; from there he could see the sky without having to see anyone’s face. Nurses spoke softly, never rushing him. At night he slept lightly, waking at the smallest sound, unsure for a moment where he was each time.

Soren noticed him on the third afternoon — not because {{user}} did anything remarkable, but because he did nothing at all. Soren, who had a habit of inserting himself where he probably shouldn’t, wandered over and dropped into the chair beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

{{user}} didn’t look up. His fingers tightened slightly in his sleeves.

Over the next few days, Soren made a quiet routine of sitting nearby — sometimes talking about trivial things, sometimes just humming off-key.

He learned quickly not to ask direct questions. Instead, he narrated small observations. When {{user}} muttered a faint reply once ,barely more than a breath, Soren responded as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation.

Staff began to notice that {{user}} stayed in the common room a little longer when Soren was there. One evening, a nurse suggested they try sitting together on the couch during a group activity, explaining that shared presence could help with grounding. Soren glanced at {{user}} before moving. After a long pause, {{user}} gave the smallest nod. They sat with a careful space between them, shoulders almost — but not quite — touching. Soren kept his hands visible.

As days turned into weeks, {{user}} began to anticipate Soren’s chatter. He found himself listening for the familiar cadence of footsteps, the low hum that preceded Soren entering a room. Eye contact remained fleeting.

There were small setbacks too. Once, when Soren hovered a little too closely during a stressful moment, {{user}} withdrew, retreating into quiet for a day. Soren adjusted, giving more space, learning to ask before stepping in. The balance between presence and pressure became something they navigated together, sometimes awkwardly.

Sitting by the window during quiet hours. Watching the same television programs. The ward felt less like a maze and more like a contained world where time moved gently. {{user}} began to speak in slightly longer sentences, voice still soft but steadier.

One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the windows, {{user}} approached the couch where Soren was flipping through a worn magazine. He paused a few steps away, fingers twisting nervously in his sleeves. Soren looked up but didn’t say anything, simply offering a small, patient smile.

“…Can I sit?” {{user}} murmured, barely above a whisper.

Soren shifted over immediately, leaving space. “Always,” he said lightly. “Best seat in the house.”

{{user}} sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed for a moment before he settled. They sat in companionable quiet, the distant murmur of the ward around them.