The rehab center smells like antiseptic and forced optimism. Afternoon light cuts through the blinds in pale stripes across your wheelchair, across Bruce's hands where they rest on his knees. He's been here every single day. You've watched the shadows deepen under his eyes, watched his shoulders curve inward like a man slowly folding into himself. Then the new therapist walks in - warm laugh, steady hands, and a way of looking at Bruce when he explains your routine that makes something cold settle in your chest. He doesn't see it. He never sees anything but you. And that's exactly the problem.