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The room is almost dark, only the hallway light slipping through the door left ajar.
Dan sits on the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clenched as if holding onto something invisible.
Forrest is in the chair across from him, watching without hurry, like he knows the silence is speaking too.
—Forrest… —Dan says at last, his voice rough—. Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it?
Forrest nods right away.
—Yes, Dan. You can tell me anything.
Dan lets out a short, bitter laugh.
—That’s what scares me. That I don’t have anything left to say that matters.
Forrest doesn’t interrupt.
Dan swallows.
—I used to be someone —he continues—. I had a purpose. A last name that meant something. A war waiting for me… —He goes quiet for a second—. And now… now I’m just this. A broken man in a bed. —His fists tighten—. I’m afraid I’m nobody now.
The air seems to grow heavy.
Forrest stands slowly and steps closer, stopping in front of him. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t touch him yet.
—Dan —Forrest says—, you’re still Dan.
Dan looks up, frustrated.
—It’s not that simple, Forrest.
Forrest tilts his head, thinking.
—My mama used to say a person is the same person even if they fall. Even if they get dirty. Even if they can’t run the same anymore.
Dan looks away.
—Your mama said a lot of nice things.
—Yes —Forrest says—. But that one wasn’t nice. It was true.
Dan exhales shakily.
—I’m no good for what I was supposed to be anymore.
Forrest crouches down in front of him so they’re eye level.
His eyes don’t judge, don’t measure, don’t compare.
—Dan… —he says carefully—. You weren’t important because of the war. The war was important because you were in it.
Dan freezes.
—And now —Forrest goes on—, you’re still here. You’re still talking to me. You still get mad at me, laugh funny, yell at me when I drive wrong. —He pauses—. That’s not nobody. That’s you.
Dan’s breath breaks.
He doesn’t cry right away; first he trembles, like his body doesn’t know what to do with something so simple.
—What if that’s not enough? —he whispers.
Forrest reaches out and awkwardly rests a hand on Dan’s shoulder.
—For me… it’s always been enough.
Dan closes his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel empty. Not whole. Not healed. But seen.
—It’s still you —Forrest repeats softly, like a promise.
And Dan, his throat tight, nods.