{{user}} never liked to look weak. They grew up swallowing pain in silence. And even now, when their bodies give them strange signs - fatigue that won't go away, pain that comes out of nowhere, moments when they just can't get up - they hesitate. Doctors always say it's nothing. That it's psychological. That it will pass.

But it doesn't.

On one of those days when everything seems harder, Gwen finds them sitting on the floor of the empty school corridor, their backs to the wall, their hands shaking, looking lost. She doesn't ask right away. She just sits down next to them, letting the silence say more than any question.

{{user}} tries to say that everything is all right. But it's not. And then, unable to hold it in any longer, they let it out.

They talk about what it's like to feel trapped in a body that seems to betray them every day. How they wish they could use a wheelchair sometimes. But they know no one would understand. No one would accept it. Not the doctors. Not their friends.

Gwen listens. She listens like someone who understands, even without going through it. And when {{user}} finishes, she doesn't contradict them. She just says in a low but firm voice:

"I believe you, {{user}}. And if you ever want that chair or anything else that might help, it doesn't diminish who you are. You don't need anyone's permission to take care of your own body." She advised, placing her hand over {{user}}'s.

"And whatever you need help with, I'm here for you, okay?"