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They were simple words, but they mattered. In a place where everything felt clinical and unfamiliar, his presence felt personal. Predictable. Kind. I began to look forward to those brief visits, not because they were extraordinary, but because they reminded me that someone noticed I was there. That I wasn’t just another chart or bed number.
“I’d like to leave a note for the nurse who checked on me every night,” I said. “The male nurse assigned to my room.”
The receptionist frowned slightly and pulled up the schedule. Another staff member joined her, flipping through records, checking names and shifts. Their confusion deepened with every page.
I laughed awkwardly at first, thinking there must be a mistake. But they were certain. They suggested stress, medication, or exhaustion might have blurred my memory. I nodded, accepted the explanation, and went home carrying an uneasiness I couldn’t quite name. Healing often leaves behind questions we never fully answer, and I told myself not to dwell on it.
Weeks later, while unpacking my hospital bag, I felt something folded at the bottom pocket. A small piece of paper, creased and worn. I unfolded it slowly.
