The Touch - Rewrite

The evening settled in quietly, the light outside fading into a dull blue-gray as the day slipped toward night. The room felt smaller at this hour, the shadows stretching just enough to make everything seem a little further away than it actually was. The television played softly in the background, something slow and forgettable, but neither of us was paying attention to it.

Oliver stood beside the bed, watching closely as I tried to shift my weight forward. My arms trembled under the effort as I pushed myself upright, every movement slower than it should have been. My legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me yet—too weak, too unreliable—and the second my feet touched the floor, I had to focus just to keep from tipping sideways.

“Easy,” Oliver said, his voice steady but not overbearing. “You’ve got it. Just take your time.”

“I am taking my time,” I muttered, my breath uneven as I adjusted my grip on the edge of the mattress.

Oliver let out a quiet huff of amusement, not mocking, just acknowledging it. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, stepping a little closer without immediately grabbing me, letting me try on my own first.

With a bit more effort, I managed to steady myself, my weight shifting awkwardly onto my legs. They shook almost immediately, the strain building faster than I wanted it to, but I stayed upright.

“Alright,” Oliver said, his tone approving but calm. “Let’s just hold here for a second. No rush.”

I nodded faintly, focusing on my breathing, on not letting everything tilt. The silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the quiet hum of the room and the faint noise from the television.

Then, because it felt easier to talk than to think about how weak I felt, I broke it.

“Greg came by earlier,” I said, my voice quieter than I expected.

Oliver glanced at me, his expression shifting slightly—not surprised, just attentive. “Yeah?”

I nodded, keeping my eyes forward. “He was telling me about his job. He works with… famous people. Helps them keep their money safe or something like that.”

Oliver smirked faintly, adjusting his stance as he kept a steady hand near my arm without fully taking hold. “That actually sounds pretty interesting,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind meeting a few famous people myself—just to see what they’re like when they’re not on TV.”

I didn’t respond right away, but the thought lingered for a second before fading.

“And… him and Natalie…” I hesitated, the words catching slightly as they shifted into something heavier. “They want to foster me.”

Saying it out loud made it feel more real than it had before.

Oliver didn’t react immediately, giving the words space instead of stepping on them. His hand finally settled lightly against my arm as my balance wavered again, steadying me without taking control.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, his tone calm and certain. “I figured that might be coming.”

I frowned slightly, glancing at him. “You did?”

He shrugged a little. “They’ve been around a lot. People don’t usually show up that consistently unless it means something.”

I shifted my weight again, my legs trembling harder now, the strain starting to build past what I could hold.

“They said I get to decide,” I continued, my voice quieter now. “Like… if I want to go with them or not.”

Oliver didn’t interrupt, letting me finish.

“I don’t know if I can,” I admitted.

The words slipped out before I could stop them, quieter than everything else but heavier somehow.

“Why not?” he asked after a moment, not pushing, just opening the space for me to answer.

I stared down at the floor, my vision blurring slightly at the edges as my legs struggled to keep me upright.

“What if I mess it up?” I said. “What if I do something wrong and they don’t want me anymore?”

The words felt familiar in a way I didn’t like.

Oliver’s grip shifted slightly, firmer now—not restricting, just grounding me before I lost my balance completely.

“Zach,” he said, his voice more serious now, steady in a different way than before. “That’s not how this works. Not with them.”

I didn’t respond, but I didn’t pull away either.

“I’ve seen a lot of families come through here,” he continued, guiding me just slightly as my stance started to falter. “Some of them mean well, some of them don’t, and some of them just don’t know what they’re getting into. But Natalie and Greg… they’re not guessing.”

My legs gave a little more, and this time Oliver stepped in fully, supporting me as he guided me carefully back onto the bed. The movement was controlled, not rushed, like he was making sure it didn’t feel like I had failed.

“They know exactly what they’re signing up for,” he went on, once I was settled back against the pillows. “And they still chose it.”

I leaned back, my chest rising and falling a little faster than normal, exhaustion settling in deeper now that I wasn’t forcing myself to stay upright.

“You couldn’t have landed on better people,” Oliver added, his tone softer again. “I mean that.”

I stared up at the ceiling, letting his words sit there without answering right away.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” he said after a moment, quieter this time.

I didn’t respond.

I wanted to believe that.

I just didn’t know how.

The world came back slowly, but it wasn’t the same kind of darkness as before.

There was light this time, soft and muted, like it was trying to push through something thick. The air felt different too—cool and damp, carrying a stillness that didn’t belong anywhere real. As everything began to take shape, I found myself standing at the edge of a small playground, the ground beneath my feet solid but distant, like I wasn’t fully connected to it.

Fog surrounded everything.

It stretched out in every direction, heavy and unmoving, swallowing anything beyond a short distance. The edges of the world blurred into it, soft and undefined, as if nothing existed past what I could see. Even the sky above was faded, colorless, blending into the same pale haze that pressed in from all sides.

At the center of it all, two small figures moved.

Toddlers.

They couldn’t have been more than two years old, their small forms unsteady as they wandered near a set of swings that creaked faintly in the still air. Their laughter was soft, almost distant, like it had to travel through the fog just to reach me.

I didn’t move.

I just watched.

There was something familiar about them, something that pulled at me in a way I couldn’t explain. They looked alike—too alike. Same light blond hair, soft and slightly tousled, catching what little light filtered through the haze. Same small frame, same uncertain steps as they moved around each other. Every time one shifted, the other followed, like they were connected by something invisible.

They stayed close.

Always close.

One of them reached out, grabbing onto the other’s sleeve with small, uncoordinated fingers, letting out a soft sound that might have been a laugh. The other turned back immediately, steadying him without hesitation, like it wasn’t even something he had to think about.

Something tightened in my chest.

The fog shifted slightly at the edges, thickening for just a moment before settling again. The playground felt too quiet, too still, like it wasn’t meant to exist on its own. The swings moved faintly without wind, chains creaking softly as they swayed back and forth.

The boys didn’t seem to notice.

They stayed focused on each other, moving together in small, uneven steps. One stumbled, his balance giving out for just a second before the other caught him, holding him steady until he found his footing again.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Something about that felt wrong.

Or maybe not wrong.

Just—

too important.

One of the boys paused suddenly, his attention shifting away from the other. His head turned slightly, his gaze locking onto something just beyond the edge of the playground, something hidden in the fog.

I followed his gaze instinctively.

There was nothing there.

Just more fog.

But he saw something.

I could feel it.

The other boy made a small sound, reaching for him again, his fingers brushing against his sleeve like he didn’t want him to go too far. For a second, it worked. The first boy hesitated, his body angled toward whatever had caught his attention, but he didn’t move.

Then he pulled away.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

The second boy reached again, this time more urgently, his small hand grasping at empty air as the space between them widened. A soft, confused sound slipped from him, the first crack in the quiet beginning to form.

The first boy didn’t look back.

He moved toward the edge of the playground, toward the thickest part of the fog where everything blurred together into nothing. His steps were uneven, uncertain, but there was something deliberate in the way he moved, something that didn’t match the rest of him.

The fog shifted again.

This time, it thinned.

Just enough.

A shape formed beyond it.

Then arms.

Outstretched.

Waiting.

My chest tightened sharply.

The second boy let out a small, panicked cry, his movements turning frantic as he tried to follow. His steps were clumsy now, desperate, his balance failing as he pushed himself forward, reaching for the other with both hands.

He couldn’t keep up.

The first boy reached the edge.

For a moment, he hesitated, his small blond head tilting slightly as he stood just in front of the waiting arms. The fog curled around them, obscuring everything except what mattered—the boy, and whatever waited beyond.

Then the arms closed around him.

They pulled him forward.

And he was gone.

The fog swallowed the space where he had been, thickening instantly, sealing it shut like nothing had ever existed there at all.

The playground fell silent.

The second boy stopped where he was, his small chest rising and falling unevenly as he stared at the place where the other had disappeared. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then the sound came.

A soft, broken cry.

It echoed through the empty space, too loud for something so small, carrying through the fog in a way that made it feel like it had nowhere to go.

I felt it.

Not just heard it.

Felt it.

The boy took a step forward, then another, slower now, uncertain. His small hand reached out again, but there was nothing left to touch. Just empty space and thick, unmoving fog.

Alone.

The word settled heavily, even though no one said it.

His crying softened, turning into something quieter, something that didn’t ask to be heard anymore. His shoulders shook slightly as he stood there, small and unsteady in a world that suddenly felt too big for him.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t speak.

I just watched.

And somewhere deep in my chest—

Something felt like it was breaking.

I woke up with a jolt, the movement sharp enough to send a dull ache through my chest as I sucked in a breath too quickly. The air caught halfway down my throat before I forced it the rest of the way, my lungs struggling to find a rhythm again. For a second, everything blurred together—the room, the light, the lingering feeling of something being wrong—until reality slowly began to settle back into place.

The ceiling came into focus first, followed by the dim glow of the television and the quiet, steady hum of the hospital around me. Everything was where it should have been. Nothing had changed.

But the feeling didn’t leave.

My chest tightened as I lay there, staring upward, my breathing uneven as the last pieces of the dream clung to me. The fog, the playground, the small figure left behind—it all lingered just beneath the surface, like it hadn’t fully let go yet. The image replayed without warning, the moment stretching out longer than it should have, repeating in a way that didn’t feel like memory.

One of them was gone.

The thought settled heavily, and my throat tightened as I swallowed against it. My eyes stung as I turned my head slightly, looking toward the empty side of the room as if something might be there, something I had missed. There wasn’t. Just the same walls, the same shadows, the same quiet stillness.

But it didn’t feel the same.

I shifted slightly under the blanket, my fingers curling into the fabric as something in my chest twisted tighter. The image wouldn’t stop—the small blond head turning away, the reaching hands, the space left behind when everything just… stopped. It didn’t feel like something I had watched. It felt like something that had been taken.

A soft sound slipped out of me before I could stop it, barely more than a breath, but it felt too loud in the quiet room. I pressed my lips together immediately, like that would take it back, like I hadn’t already let it happen. My eyes burned more now, the pressure building in a way I couldn’t fully control.

I squeezed them shut, turning my face slightly into the pillow as I tried to keep the rest of it in. The crying didn’t come all at once. It never did. It stayed quiet, controlled, breaking through in small, uneven breaths that I tried to keep silent, like if I stayed quiet enough, it wouldn’t count.

I didn’t understand why it felt like this. It didn’t make sense. It was just a dream.

But it didn’t feel like one.

It felt like something I had lost.

That thought tightened something deeper in my chest, sharper this time, and I pulled the blanket slightly higher without thinking, like it could hide something that wasn’t visible to begin with. The room stayed quiet around me, unchanged, but the feeling lingered, refusing to settle into something I could ignore.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

My body reacted before my mind caught up, going still in an instant. The instinct came fast—automatic and familiar—and I forced my breathing to slow, even though it still felt uneven in my chest. I kept my eyes closed, turning my face slightly away from the door, willing myself into stillness.

The handle shifted, and the door opened quietly.

I didn’t move. I didn’t open my eyes. I focused on keeping my breathing steady, even, like I had already fallen back asleep. The footsteps were soft as they entered the room, careful in a way that didn’t feel like someone looking for a reason to be angry.

Oliver.

I knew it without seeing him.

He didn’t say anything at first, and somehow that made it easier to keep pretending. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy or expectant. It didn’t feel like he was waiting for me to slip up. It just… existed, calm and steady in a way that didn’t demand anything from me.

I heard him move a little closer, the faint sound of fabric shifting or something being adjusted near the bed. The blanket shifted slightly over me, careful and deliberate, like he was making sure it stayed in place without waking me.

He wasn’t checking for anything.

He wasn’t looking for anything.

He was just… there.

I didn’t react. I didn’t let myself.

A few more seconds passed before his footsteps shifted again, quieter now as he stepped back. There was a pause near the door, just long enough to feel like he was making sure everything was settled before leaving.

Then the door opened again.

Closed.

And he was gone.

The room fell back into silence, the kind that pressed in a little more now that I knew I was alone again. I didn’t move right away. I stayed exactly where I was, my eyes still closed, my breathing slowly losing the forced rhythm I had been holding onto.

The tightness in my chest didn’t go away, but it loosened just enough for me to take a deeper breath without it catching.

When I finally opened my eyes, the ceiling was still there, unchanged, just like before. Everything looked the same. Nothing had moved.

But it didn’t feel the same.

I turned my head slightly, staring toward the empty space again, the place where nothing had happened and nothing should have mattered.

And still—

it did.

Morning came more gently than the night had.

The light filtering through the window was softer this time, pale and steady instead of harsh, and it didn’t pull me awake so much as ease me into it. For a few seconds, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around me before everything else caught up.

The dream was still there.

Not as sharp, not as overwhelming, but it lingered in the background like something I couldn’t fully shake. The feeling of it stayed longer than the images themselves, sitting somewhere deep in my chest where I couldn’t quite reach it.

A soft knock broke through the quiet before the door opened.

Natalie stepped inside, already in her scrubs, her hair pulled back neatly as she moved with the same calm efficiency she always had. She glanced toward me as she closed the door, and when she saw I was awake, her expression softened almost immediately.

“Good morning,” she said gently, stepping closer to the bed. “You’re up early today.”

“I think I just woke up,” I murmured, my voice still rough from sleep.

She smiled faintly at that, setting a chart down before reaching over to check a few things with practiced ease. Her movements were familiar now—steady, careful, never rushed in a way that made me feel like I was just another task to finish.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing back at me. “Any dizziness? Head still bothering you?”

I shifted slightly, testing it without really thinking. “A little,” I admitted. “Not as bad.”

“That’s progress,” she said, her tone light but genuine. “We’ll take that.”

She adjusted the blanket slightly, smoothing it out without making a big deal out of it, and for a moment the room settled into a quiet that didn’t feel uncomfortable.

I hesitated before speaking again.

“Is… Greg coming back today?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Natalie didn’t react like it was strange to ask. If anything, her smile softened just a little more.

“He is,” she said. “He had a couple things to take care of this morning, but he said he’d be by not long after.”

I nodded faintly, looking down at my hands as they shifted slightly against the blanket.

“He won’t get in trouble?” I asked quietly. “For missing work again?”

Natalie’s expression changed at that—not dramatically, but enough that I noticed. She stepped closer, resting her hand gently against the side of my face before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

“No,” she said, her voice warm but certain. “He won’t. His clients know what’s going on, and they care about him a lot. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.”

Something in my chest eased slightly at that, even if I didn’t fully understand why.

About an hour later, another knock sounded at the door before it opened again.

Greg stepped inside, balancing a small paper bag in one hand and a drink carrier in the other. The faint smell hit the room before he even said anything, warm and familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“Morning,” he said, his tone easy as he stepped further inside. “I come bearing gifts.”

I blinked at him, sitting up a little straighter without meaning to.

He set the bag down on the tray table and glanced back at me with a small grin. “Got permission first,” he added, nodding toward Natalie. “Didn’t want to get kicked out on my second visit.”

Natalie rolled her eyes lightly but didn’t argue, stepping back as Greg opened the bag.

He pulled out two wrapped sandwiches, setting one in front of me before keeping the other for himself. “Figured hospital food could use a break,” he said. “This one’s yours.”

I stared at it for a second, not moving right away.

McDonald’s.

Something about it felt… normal. Familiar in a way that didn’t come with anything else in this place.

“Go ahead,” Greg said, unwrapping his own. “Before it gets cold.”

I hesitated for just a second longer before reaching for it, my fingers tightening slightly around the wrapper. The warmth seeped through immediately, grounding in a way I didn’t expect.

I took a bite.

And for a moment—

everything else faded.

It tasted like something I remembered, even if I couldn’t place when or where. Simple. Normal. Not hospital food. Not something measured or timed.

Just food.

Greg watched me for a second before taking a bite of his own, nodding slightly like he approved of his own decision. “Told you,” he said lightly.

I didn’t say anything right away, but I could feel it—the small shift, the way something in my chest loosened just a little more.

I liked him.

I wasn’t supposed to.

But I did.

Another knock came at the door before it opened again, pulling my attention away.

Karen stepped inside, a small bag in her hand.

“Looks like I picked a good time,” she said, glancing between us before stepping further into the room.

Greg gave a small nod in greeting before shifting slightly to give her space.

Karen moved closer to the bed, holding the bag out toward me. “I brought you something,” she said.

I frowned slightly, looking at it before taking it carefully. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt… different. Mine.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

“Just open it,” she said.

I hesitated for a second before pulling the top apart and looking inside.

Clothes.

Folded neatly—t-shirts, sweatpants, things that looked new. At the bottom, I could see a pair of shoes, still clean, untouched.

I stared at them longer than I meant to.

“Why?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

Karen didn’t hesitate. “Because I wanted to,” she said simply. “Consider it a gift.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

My fingers brushed lightly over the fabric, something tight forming in my chest again, but different this time. Not sharp. Not painful.

Just… unfamiliar.

Karen watched me for a moment before continuing. “You’ll be able to use them soon,” she added.

I looked up at that.

“What do you mean?”

She met my gaze evenly. “You’re being discharged tomorrow,” she said. “Assuming everything goes as planned.”

The words didn’t register right away.

“Tomorrow?” I repeated.

Karen nodded. “And you won’t be going back into the system,” she added carefully. “You’ll be going home with Natalie and Greg.”

Home.

The word landed heavier than anything else.

I glanced between them—Natalie, Greg—like I was trying to make sure I had heard it right.

Greg didn’t say anything right away, but there was something steady in the way he looked at me. Not expectant. Not pushing.

Just… there.

I looked back down at the bag in my hands, my grip tightening slightly around it.

Mine.

All of it.

And tomorrow—

I was leaving.

The afternoon faded slowly into evening, the light outside dimming just enough to cast longer shadows across the room. The television was still on, but it had long since blended into the background, its low hum mixing with the steady rhythm of the hospital around me. Everything felt quieter at this hour, like the day was winding down whether I was ready for it or not.

I was still thinking about what Karen had said.

Tomorrow.

The word didn’t sit right yet. It felt too close, too sudden, like something I hadn’t had time to understand. The bag of clothes sat off to the side where I could see it, untouched since she handed it to me. Every time I looked at it, something shifted in my chest again—something unfamiliar that I didn’t know what to do with.

A knock at the door pulled me out of it.

Before I could respond, it opened.

Oliver stepped inside, already dressed for his shift, though something about the way he moved felt a little less rushed than usual. He glanced at me, then at the chair in the corner, like he had already decided something before walking in.

“Hey,” he said, his tone easy. “You up for something different?”

I frowned slightly, pushing myself up a little more in the bed. “Different how?”

Instead of answering right away, Oliver crossed the room and reached for the wheelchair, pulling it closer to the bed. The quiet scrape of the wheels against the floor made something in my chest tighten, but not in a bad way.

“Thought we could take a walk,” he said. “Or… as close as we can get to one right now.”

I blinked at him.

“Outside?” I asked, not quite believing it.

He shrugged lightly, like it wasn’t a big deal. “For a few minutes,” he said. “Before I get stuck in here all night.”

Something shifted in my chest again—faster this time.

“Okay,” I said before I could think too much about it.

Getting into the wheelchair wasn’t easy. My body still didn’t cooperate the way I wanted it to, and even with Oliver guiding me, every movement felt slower and heavier than it should have. But he didn’t rush me, didn’t take over more than he had to. He just stayed steady, letting me do what I could while making sure I didn’t lose my balance.

Once I was settled, he grabbed a couple of extra blankets from the side and draped them carefully over my legs, tucking them in enough to keep the warmth in without making it feel tight.

“It’s colder than it looks,” he said. “Don’t need you freezing on me.”

I nodded faintly, adjusting my hands against the blanket as he moved behind the chair.

The hallway felt different from this angle.

Everything looked taller, farther away, the ceiling stretching higher than it ever had from the bed. The sounds carried differently too—voices, footsteps, distant movement—all blending together into something that felt more real than the quiet isolation of the room.

Oliver pushed the chair at an easy pace, not too fast, not too slow, navigating through the hallway with practiced ease. He didn’t say much, and I didn’t either. It didn’t feel necessary.

The doors slid open as we reached the exit, and the air changed immediately.

Cool.

Fresh.

It hit my face first, then settled around me, sharp in a way that made me inhale without thinking. The cold seeped through the layers just enough to make me aware of it, but not enough to make me pull back.

We stopped just outside.

For a moment, I didn’t say anything.

I just breathed.

The air felt different out here. Cleaner. Lighter. It didn’t carry the same weight as everything inside, didn’t press in the same way. Even the light felt different, softer as it reflected off the pale winter sky.

I took another breath, deeper this time.

And for a second—

it felt like something close to freedom.

I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it was there.

“This okay?” Oliver asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.

I nodded quickly. “Yeah,” I said, my voice softer than usual. “Yeah… it’s good.”

The words didn’t feel like enough.

I shifted slightly in the chair, my hands tightening against the blanket as I looked out at everything beyond the doors. It wasn’t much—just a small area near the entrance, a stretch of pavement, a few bare trees—but it felt bigger than anything I had seen in weeks.

“Thank you,” I added after a second, glancing back slightly. “For this.”

Oliver didn’t make a big deal out of it.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Figured you could use a break from those four walls.”

I huffed out a small breath, something close to a laugh slipping through without much effort.

“Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “I really could.”

We stayed there for a few minutes, not saying much. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like something that needed to be filled. It just… existed, steady and calm in a way I wasn’t used to.

Eventually, I felt Oliver shift slightly behind me.

I heard the faint click of a watch.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, his tone still easy but a little more focused now. “Hate to cut it short, but we should head back. Shift change is coming up, and I’d rather not get hunted down for disappearing with you.”

I nodded, even though part of me didn’t want to move.

“Okay.”

The doors slid open again as we went back inside, the warmth of the hospital wrapping around me in a way that felt heavier now than it had before. The air felt thicker, the sounds more contained.

Different.

Oliver pushed me back down the hallway at the same steady pace, guiding the chair into the room without any trouble. Once we were inside, he moved around to help me back into bed, giving me just enough support to make it manageable without taking over completely.

When I was settled again, the blankets pulled back into place, the room felt smaller than it had before.

But not as suffocating.

“Thanks again,” I said quietly, glancing toward him.

Oliver gave a small nod, like it didn’t need to be said twice.

“Anytime,” he replied. Then, after a brief glance at the clock, he added, “Get some rest. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

The word landed again, just as heavy as before.

I didn’t respond right away.

I just watched him for a second as he turned toward the door, the room settling back into its quiet rhythm as he stepped out.

And even after he was gone—

I could still feel the cold air.

Still feel that brief moment where everything had opened up.

Like something waiting just outside—

for me to step into it.

The room was quieter when she came back.

Night had settled fully by then, the faint glow from the hallway slipping in through the crack beneath the door while the rest of the room stayed dim. The television had long since been turned down, leaving only a soft murmur in the background that barely registered anymore.

I was still awake.

Not really thinking about anything specific—just… there. The feeling from earlier, from being outside, still lingered faintly in my chest, though it had dulled since coming back inside. Tomorrow kept circling in my head, never fully forming into something I could understand.

A soft knock came at the door before it opened.

Natalie stepped in, her movements quieter than usual, like she already knew the room didn’t need much more noise. She had changed out of her scrubs, her hair falling more loosely around her shoulders now, but everything about her still felt the same—steady, familiar.

“Hey,” she said softly as she stepped closer to the bed. “Just checking in before I head out.”

I pushed myself up slightly, adjusting against the pillows as she moved to the side of the bed. Her eyes scanned me quickly, not in a clinical way, but in that same careful way she always did—like she was making sure I was actually okay, not just pretending to be.

“Did you take your meds?” she asked gently.

I nodded. “Oliver made sure.”

That earned a small smile from her. “Good. He usually does.”

She reached down, adjusting the blanket slightly before stepping back just enough to grab something from the chair nearby. When she turned back, there was a book in her hands.

“This is for you,” she said, holding it out.

I frowned slightly, taking it carefully. The cover was simple, but the title stood out immediately.

The Touch.

My fingers traced lightly over the letters without thinking.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

“It’s a story,” she said, her voice softening just a little. “One I thought you might like.”

I nodded faintly, though I didn’t open it yet. Just holding it felt… different. Like the clothes earlier. Like something that was mine.

Natalie pulled the chair closer and sat down, not rushing to leave like I expected her to. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The quiet settled naturally, not heavy, just… there.

“I wanted to talk to you for a minute,” she said after a bit, her voice quieter now.

I looked up at her.

She hesitated just slightly, like she was choosing her words carefully, then rested her hands loosely in her lap.

“I know everything is happening pretty fast,” she continued. “Being here, meeting us, hearing that you’re leaving tomorrow… that’s a lot to take in.”

I nodded faintly, my grip tightening slightly around the book.

“But I want you to understand something,” she went on. “You don’t have to be anything other than what you are right now.”

That didn’t make sense.

I frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

She leaned forward just a little, her expression soft but steady. “I mean you don’t have to prove anything to us,” she said. “Not to me. Not to Greg.”

The words sat there, unfamiliar.

“I hope I make you proud,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

The second it left my mouth, something felt wrong about it, like I had repeated something I didn’t even realize I had been holding onto.

Natalie’s expression shifted immediately.

Not disappointment.

Something else.

She leaned forward fully then, closing the small space between us as her arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me into a gentle but firm embrace. It wasn’t sudden or overwhelming—it was steady, like she was making sure I had time to react without forcing anything.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said softly, her voice close now. “It’s not your job to make us proud.”

I didn’t move at first.

Didn’t know how.

“It’s our job,” she continued quietly, “to prove to you that you can trust us.”

Something in my chest tightened sharply at that, and before I could stop it, the words slipped out.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

My voice sounded smaller than I expected.

Natalie didn’t pull away completely, but she shifted just enough to look at me.

“Because you deserve it,” she said simply.

I shook my head faintly, the response immediate.

“No, I don’t,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m… I’m worthless.”

The word hung there.

Heavy.

Wrong.

And the second it left my mouth, something twisted in my chest, like I had said something I wasn’t supposed to—but also something I had heard too many times to question.

Natalie’s arms tightened around me slightly.

“No,” she said firmly, but not harshly. “You are not.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

“You are worth more than you even understand right now,” she continued, her voice softer again but no less certain. “And what happened to you… what you went through… none of that changes who you are.”

Her hand moved gently against the back of my head, steadying in a way that made it harder to pull away.

“No one should have to go through that,” she added quietly. “No one.”

The room fell quiet again, but it wasn’t empty.

I didn’t realize how tired I was until my body started to give in, the medication pulling at me slowly, making everything feel heavier. My grip on the book loosened slightly as my head rested against her without me thinking about it.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t rush it.

She just stayed there, letting it happen.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said softly after a while. “Okay?”

I nodded faintly, my eyes already struggling to stay open.

“And Greg…” she added, a small hint of warmth returning to her voice, “he’s been getting everything ready for you. You’ve got your own room waiting.”

A room.

For me.

The thought felt distant, like something I couldn’t quite reach.

As the darkness started to pull me under again, one last thought slipped through, quiet and uncertain.

All of this…

for someone like me.

A failure.

The word echoed faintly as everything faded.

Do I really deserve to be happy?