“You don’t have to,” he replied. “I’m used to being a burden.”
“That’s not true,” I said, though my voice trembled.
I stepped closer. “Let me help you to the bed.”
He hesitated, then nodded. I wrapped my arms around him and tried to lift him—but my foot slipped against the rug. We fell hard onto the floor. Pain shot through me as I tried to rise, but I froze when I felt movement beneath the blanket.
“…You can still feel this?” I asked, stunned.
He lowered his gaze, a fragile smile touching his lips.
“The doctors said physical therapy could help me walk again,” he admitted. “But once everyone left… walking stopped mattering.”
Those words stayed with me all night.
In the days that followed, I changed our routine. Every morning, I pushed him out onto the balcony.
“You don’t have to like the sunlight,” I told him gently. “But it still reaches you.”
At first, he resisted.
“Why do you care?” he asked one morning.
“Because no one deserves to stay in the dark,” I answered.
Little by little, I encouraged him to try.
“Hold my hand,” I said. He did, shaking.
“One more step,” I whispered.
Sometimes he fell, and I always caught him, rubbing his legs afterward until the pain eased.