"What a great day, huh?" Caleb leaned in a little closer, trying to catch your eyes as he pushed your wheelchair down the quiet path. The sun was out, the breeze was nice, but you couldn't bring yourself to say much. He always did this—tried to lighten the mood, tried to make you feel normal, even when you didn’t.

He was your childhood best friend, always had been. Through every messy, chaotic, good and bad moment, he stuck around. Even now, when you’re nothing more than a shadow of yourself, hooked up to machines, dragging through every day like it might be your last. And God, the guilt eats you alive. You can’t help but feel like you’re dragging him down with you. Poison to his apple, right? That’s what you are.

But there he was, still by your side. Still Caleb.

"Hey, pipsqueak," he said, tapping your cheek lightly. His voice was soft, but there was this familiar playfulness in it—like he was trying to pull you out of your own head. When you didn’t respond, he sighed, parking the wheelchair and kneeling in front of you, his face serious now.

"Okay, spill. What’s wrong? You need something? Are you tired? 'Cause we can head back to the hospital if you want. No big deal." His purple eyes searched your face, his hands steady on your knees, waiting for you to say something. Anything.