I know that shape anywhere — the faint outline of my mom's curly hair through the glass panel of my room door, her cardigan sleeves always too long, her posture that soft mix of tired and waiting.

The second I roll into the doorway, her face lights up.

"Mom!" I squeal. "You're here!"

She laughs as I wheel right into her hug, my arms thrown around her like I'm trying to fuse us back together. "I told you I'd come today," she says, brushing a hand over my hair. "Group therapy ran late, huh?"

"Ugh, you have no idea," I sigh dramatically. "We talked about fear, and then courage, and then Calian said something that made everyone cry, and—oh my gosh, Mom, I have so much to tell you."

She chuckles, settling into the chair beside my bed. "Then tell me, sweetheart."

That's all the permission I need.

"So, okay," I start, gesturing wildly, "you remember the guy I told you about? The one who got put in my room because the hospital ran out of space? That's Calian. He's quiet — like, super quiet — but not in a mean way. More like he thinks too loud to talk. You know what I mean?"

My mom nods, amused. "Mmhmm. Go on."

"And he's an artist!" I say, eyes wide. "He draws everything — people, places, fish, swans — you name it. And he's really good. Like, crazy good. I told him he should sell his stuff and become famous, but he just rolled his eyes and said 'no.' Typical artist behavior, right?"

She smiles softly. "He sounds interesting."

"Oh, he is," I say quickly, leaning forward. "He pretends he doesn't like me talking so much, but I know he does. I caught him smiling once—like, an actual smile! I thought he was allergic to it!"

Mom laughs, that low, warm laugh that always feels like home. "So he makes you happy."

I stop mid-ramble, blinking. "Yeah," I say quietly. "He does. But everything makes me happy!"

She studies me for a moment, her eyes gentle. "You like him."

"Wh—what? No!" I sputter. "I mean—yes! Of course I like him. I like everyone! It's not like that, Mom, we're just... we talk! Well, I talk. He listens. It's a system. A really good one."

She grins, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "Sweetheart, I know that look. You talk about him the way you used to talk about your favorite book when you were little. The one you couldn't stop rereading."

I roll my eyes, laughing. "You mean The Secret Garden? That's because it had plants and sad people who became happy. It's basically my brand."

"Exactly," she says softly. "And it sounds like he fits right in that story."

For a second, I go quiet — a rare, shocking event.
Then I smile. "He kind of does. So does Charlotte."

Mom looks around the room — at the half-finished sketch Calian left on the side table, the paper crane someone folded for me weeks ago, the flowers Charlotte brought yesterday. "This place feels warmer every time I visit," she says. "You've made it your own."

"Maybe because it's full of people who don't feel so broken anymore," I say softly. "Even when we still are."

She reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently. "That's my girl."

"Your very loud girl," I correct.

"My very loud, very brave girl."

I grin. "Well, I had to be. You made me that way."

We sit there for a while — me yapping about everything I missed in the outside world (spoiler: not much), her listening like every word matters, her eyes occasionally glancing toward the door like she half expects Calian to appear.

Eventually, she says, "Maybe next time I visit, you can introduce me to this artist of yours."

I choke on my water dramatically. "What?! No! Absolutely not!"

She laughs. "Why not?"

"Because, Mom, he's quiet. You'd scare him off in five seconds!"

She tilts her head, smiling. "Funny. You didn't."

I open my mouth to argue, but the words don't come out. Instead, I just smile — a real one this time.

Because maybe she's right.

I'm still talking about him. Of course I am. I can't shut up when my heart's full — and right now, it's overflowing. I had the same problem when I first met Charlotte. My poor Mom had to deal with my excited yapping about my new best friend.

"...and he pretends he doesn't care, but I swear he listens to everything. Like, I'll say something dumb about how fish are basically wet birds and two hours later he's sketching a pelican like it's a love letter—"

And then the door opens.

I freeze. Mom's eyebrows lift.
And Calian... stops halfway into the room.

He's holding his sketchbook under one arm, hair a little messy from the hallway breeze, expression halfway between confused and deer in headlights.

"Oh," he says quietly. "You're not alone."

"Nope!" I blurt, way too loud. "I mean yes! I mean—hi!"

Mom stands, smiling that calm, knowing smile mothers are genetically programmed with. "You must be Calian."

His posture straightens instantly, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking to me like help. "Uh. Hi. Yes. That's me."

"Mom," I say, forcing a grin that's way too wide. "This is Calian. Calian, this is my mother, the lovely woman who brought me into this world and now intends to embarrass me until I leave it."

"Nice to meet you," he says politely, voice careful, quiet. He looks like he's calculating the safest escape route through thin air.

Mom chuckles, extending her hand. "Nice to meet you too, Calian. I've heard... quite a bit about you."

I slap my palm over my face. "Oh my god, Mom."

He blinks. "You have?"

"She has!" I groan. "Too much! Ignore everything she thinks she knows!"

Mom smirks. "She tells me you're an artist."

His grip tightens on the sketchbook. "I—uh—draw sometimes."

"Sometimes?" I gasp. "You're literally drawing all the time!"

He looks at me, deadpan. "Not helping."

Mom laughs softly, the sound warm and disarming. "Well, she's clearly your biggest fan."

"More like unpaid publicist," he mutters.

"I'm both!" I declare proudly.

Mom sits back down, clearly delighted by all of this. "You two seem to get along."

I open my mouth to deny it, but Calian beats me to it. "She talks. I listen," he says simply.

Mom chuckles. "That sounds like a perfect balance."

He looks at her — just for a second — and nods politely. "It works."

I'm staring at him like, who gave you permission to be charming right now?

Mom glances between us, smiling in that way that tells me she's filing this entire interaction away for future teasing material. "Well," she says, standing up and brushing her hands together. "I should let you rest, sweetheart."

"I'm fine!" I say quickly. "We were just about to—uh—compare sketching techniques! Right, Calian?"

He blinks. "We were?"

"Yep!" I shoot him a desperate look. "Totally were. Artistic bonding. Very therapeutic."

Mom grins, already halfway to the door. "I'll leave you to it, then." Then, softly, before stepping out, she leans close and whispers in my ear, "He's sweet."

And then she's gone — the door clicking softly behind her, leaving the room a mix of silence and too-much-heartbeat.

Calian's still standing there, awkward, sketchbook clutched like a shield. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't!" I say too fast. "I was just, you know, casually talking about—uh—fish."

He raises an eyebrow. "Fish?"

"Yep. Definitely not you."

He smirks — tiny, almost invisible, but it's there. "Right."

The air between us feels lighter then.
Familiar.

"So..." he says quietly, stepping closer. "What were you actually saying?"

"Nothing incriminating," I say, grinning. "You'll never prove it."

He huffs a small laugh — soft, shy, and worth every heartbeat.