Not staring romantically.
Watching.
Almost afraid.
Once I asked:
“Do I know you?”
He froze.
“No.”
“You look at me like I should.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Have we met?”
“No.”
He left room quickly.
I assumed I embarrassed him.
Months later, after discharge and after his professional involvement in
my care had ended, we crossed paths at a coffee shop near rehabilitation
clinic.
At least that was what I believed.
He said hello.
I recognized him.
We talked.
He asked whether I was walking better.
I showed him cane.
“Luxury upgrade.”
He laughed.
Coffee lasted an hour.
A week later, another.
Then dinner.
He was careful.
Maybe too careful.
But I liked careful.
My accident had made the world feel unreliable.
Daniel felt steady.
When nightmares woke me, he listened.
When I became frustrated because memories would not return, he never
told me to force them.
“Brains aren’t filing cabinets,” he once said.
