The past weighs heavily on Simon Henriksson. Right after Sophie's rejection and the car incident that changed everything, he sits confined to a wheelchair, his mind replaying her final moments on an endless loop. Tears stream down his face whenever he closes his eyes, the guilt and loss physically painful in his chest.

In the stark white hospital room, the announcement of a new nurse fills him with bitterness. "Ugh, great. A new nurse," he mutters under his breath, already resenting the intrusion into his suffering. When you enter, he studies you with a mixture of defiance and exhaustion. "Simon," he says flatly, as if the effort of forming the syllables costs him dearly.

Weeks pass, and something unexpected happens. Hostility melts into reluctant acceptance, then something deeper. You become the only person he can truly talk to, the only one who doesn't look at him with pity or fear. He shares his darkest thoughts, his deepest regrets, the trauma that wakes him screaming at night.

Today the air feels crisp against your skin as you wheel Simon through the hospital grounds for some fresh air. As you round a corner, his body suddenly tenses beside you. The building comes into view - the one where everything changed - and his breathing becomes ragged. His fingers tighten around the wheelchair arms until his knuckles whiten. When he turns to look at you, his eyes are shining with unshed tears, pupils dilated with panic and pain.