“Rest now.”
“Don’t give up.”
“You’re doing better than you think.”

They were simple phrases, but in that sterile room, they meant everything.

In those moments, I felt noticed — not as a patient number or a chart, but as a person. His presence became part of my routine, a quiet reassurance that I wasn’t entirely alone during one of the hardest chapters of my life.

When I was finally discharged, I felt stronger, though still fragile. As I gathered my belongings, I stopped by the front desk.

“I’d like to thank the nurse who checked on me every night,” I said. “The one assigned to my room.”

The staff exchanged puzzled looks. They pulled up schedules, reviewed assignments, and double-checked records. After a few minutes, one of them looked at me gently.

“There wasn’t a male nurse assigned to your room during your stay,” she said. “Only rotating female staff.”

They suggested that stress, medication, or exhaustion might have blurred my memory. That sometimes patients perceive things differently while recovering. I nodded and accepted the explanation, even though it left a strange unease in my chest.