I couldn’t breathe. She pulled up a chair and sat beside me like no time had passed.
“We moved in the middle of the night,” she said. “My mom got a job in another state. No time to say goodbye.”
She smiled, softer now. “I know. The teacher gave me your letters. I read every one.”
Amy — the girl with oversized shoes and no lunch — was now a nurse. Calm. Confident. Kind.
“How did you get here?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Long story. But I think it started with a cheese sandwich.”
And just like that, we were back in fifth grade.
Over the next few days, she checked on me often. We filled in the gaps of the last decade. She told me about the motel they lived in, her mom working two jobs, and how she worked through high school to help out.
“Scholarships saved me,” she said. “And one nurse who believed in me. She paid for my exams.”
“That’s incredible,” I said.
I believed her.
One afternoon, a child cried in the hallway. Amy paused, listened, then left the room. Ten minutes later, she returned with a sticker, a juice box, and a smile.
“Still handing out food to make people feel better?” I teased.
She laughed. “Some things never change.”
On my last day, she helped with discharge papers and handed me a folded note.
“You probably don’t remember,” she said, “but you once made a list of things I was good at. You told me I was more than what people saw.”
Inside was that same list. Faded, but intact.
“It reminded me I mattered. That someone believed in me.”
I couldn’t speak.
Then she asked, “Want to get coffee sometime?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner into walks. Walks into movie nights. And one evening, I finally said what I’d been holding onto for years:
“You were my favorite person back then. And I think you still are.”
She blushed. “You were the first person who made me feel important.”
We didn’t say much after that. We just held hands.
Life was gentle for a while. We worked weekends together. Amy kept her shifts. Then her mom got sick — pancreatic cancer, late stage.
“I just got her back,” she sobbed into my shirt.
She moved in to care for her full-time. I visited often, brought food, helped where I could. Watching Amy care for her mom broke something in me — in the best way. She was graceful, patient, fierce.
One night on the balcony, she asked, “Do you think life balances itself out?”
I nodded. “You get back what you give.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I got love when I needed it most. Now I’m giving it.”
Her mother passed quietly weeks later.
At the funeral, Amy read a poem she’d written in high school — about hope, survival, and unseen hands that lift you when you’re falling. Everyone cried.
Afterward, she asked me to move in.
We rented a small apartment with creaky floors and big windows. On Sundays, she played old music while we cooked. On Thursdays, we watched crime documentaries and argued over suspects.
One day, while cleaning, she found her old sketchbook.
“You still draw?” I asked.
“Not really. I always thought I had to choose between art and survival.”
“You don’t have to choose anymore.”
A week later, I signed her up for a local art show.
She was angry. Then scared. Then grateful.
Her drawing of her mom’s hands holding a paper lunch bag won first place. A gallery offered to display her work.
Everything changed.
Amy started drawing again. More shows followed. Commissions trickled in. She reduced her hospital hours and began teaching art therapy.
She bloomed.
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