For many years, I had worked as a physical therapist. I loved my job because it was not just about physical recovery but also about rebuilding confidence, about reminding people that their lives weren't over just because something had changed.

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Many of my patients came to me after devastating injuries, struggling to accept their new reality.

Some were angry, some were grieving, some were too numb to feel anything at all.

I understood those feelings well. I had spent my whole life proving—to others and to myself—that moving forward was possible.

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Helping them felt personal. In a way, every patient I worked with was a reflection of me.

Since birth, I had been… incomplete. At least, that was the word they had used to taunt me in school.

I was born without legs. Now, people admire me for how I lived my life. They said I was inspiring, strong.

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But back then, kids my age didn't see strength when they looked at me. They saw someone different, someone who didn't belong.

I didn't like thinking about those years.

That morning, I was going over my schedule when Nurse Nancy approached, her face tense. I sighed. I knew that look.

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"What now?" I asked the moment I saw Nancy's face.

She stopped short, blinking. "How do you always know?"

I crossed my arms. "I've worked with you for years. You have that guilty look."

Nancy sighed. "Brown had an emergency. You need to take his patient."

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I frowned. "Today?"

"Now," she admitted, shifting her weight.

I stared at her. "You're joking."

"I wish I was," she muttered.

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"Is he serious?"

"I don’t know," Nancy said, lowering her gaze.

I sighed. "Fine. At least give me the patient's file."

Nancy winced. "Brown forgot to leave it. His office is locked."

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I rubbed my forehead. "So, I know nothing about this person? No history, no injury details, nothing?"

"Pretty much," Nancy said, inching away. "You'll be fine."

I shot her a look. "You're running away."

"I don’t like confrontations," she admitted and took off.

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I exhaled slowly. I'd deal with Brown later. Right now, I had a patient waiting.

I walked to reception, scanning the room. Empty. Maybe he was late. I checked the clock. No, he should be here.

Through the glass doors, I spotted a man outside in a wheelchair, his back faced to me.

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I hesitated. Something about him felt familiar, though I couldn't place why. His posture, maybe. The way his hands rested on the wheels.

I stepped outside. "Hi, I'm Monica, physical therapist. Are you here for an appointment?"

He turned. My breath caught.

That face.

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"Monica?" he said, eyes widening. "I didn't know you were a physical therapist. Listen, I have so much to—"

"Don't," I cut in.

His voice stirred something deep, something I didn't want to feel. My chest tightened.

The words came fast, firm.

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I turned before he could say more. My legs, I mean prosthetics, carried me toward the park nearby before my mind caught up.

Memories crashed over me like a wave. Suddenly, I was back in high school, a teenager again, constantly proving I was just like everyone else.

I did everything they did. I walked the same halls, took the same tests, laughed at the same jokes.

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But none of it mattered. They still saw me as different. And there he was—Brian—always looking for ways to bring me down.

Brian had made my school years harder than they needed to be. He never missed a chance to remind me I wasn't like the others. In the hallways, in the cafeteria, even in class.

He didn’t need to hit or shove. Words were enough. A smirk, a whisper, a cruel joke thrown in my direction.

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I kept my head high, pretending his words didn’t sting. But they did. Brian had made my school years harder than they needed to be.

"What's wrong, incomplete?" Brian would shout across the hall, his voice sharp, dripping with amusement. "Need help getting to class?"

My hands clenched into fists, but I forced myself to stay calm. "I walk just like you—on two legs," I'd say, keeping my voice steady.

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Brian’s smirk grew wider. "Except mine aren't fake," he’d sneer, turning to his friends. They'd burst into laughter, nudging each other, grinning like it was the funniest joke they'd ever heard.

I never understood why Brian singled me out. He had plenty of other people to bother, but for some reason, I was his favorite target.

He didn't just mock me—he made sure I felt alone. Because of him, I had no friends.

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No one wanted to sit with me at lunch or talk to me between classes. I spent my breaks in the library, hiding behind books, counting the days until graduation.

When prom came, I didn't go. I wanted to forget all of them.

After high school, my life got better. I changed. I grew stronger. I learned to be proud of who I was.

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Now, as Brian rolled closer, I barely recognized him. He looked unsure, vulnerable—nothing like the person I remembered. It had been 15 years since I last saw him during our high school graduation.

Brian finally reached me, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. His hands rested on the wheels of his chair, fingers gripping the metal tightly. His shoulders looked tense, like he was bracing himself for something.

"I guess this is surprising for you," he said, voice quiet.

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"Surprising?" I repeated, folding my arms. "You're the one person I hoped never to see again."

Brian nodded, staring at the ground. "I get that. I wasn't exactly a good person in school."

"That's putting it mildly," I said. "What happened?"

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"Car accident," he said, his voice flat. He hesitated, then continued. "I'd been driving for hours. I was exhausted but didn't stop. Fell asleep at the wheel. Crashed into a tree." He exhaled slowly. "I guess karma finally caught up with me."

"I see," I said, watching him carefully.

"The doctors say there's a high chance I'll never walk again, but they sent me to physical therapy anyway," Brian continued, shifting in his chair. "They say there's still a possibility, but it's small."

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"So there's still hope," I said. "Maybe you won't be… incomplete."

Brian's head snapped up. He flinched, just a little, but I saw it. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Listen—" he started.

"I don't—" I said at the same time.

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We both stopped. Silence stretched between us.

"Can I go first?" Brian asked.

I nodded.

"I'll understand if you refuse to be my therapist," he said. "I was a complete jerk to you in school. There's no excuse for that. I was just a stupid kid."

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He took a breath. "I'm sorry, Monica. I really am. I've thought about you a lot. I even tried to reach out once, but I saw that I was blocked. After the accident, I kept thinking about how awful I had been."

I wanted to refuse. Every part of me screamed to walk away. I could call Brown, tell him to handle Brian himself.

Let someone else deal with him. Someone who didn’t carry the weight of old memories.

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I crossed my arms, staring at the ground. My chest felt tight. Why did it have to be him? Of all the patients in the world, why Brian?

I sighed, pressing my palms to my face. This was ridiculous. I wasn't a kid anymore. High school was over. The past had no power over me—at least, that's what I told myself.

Brian was just another patient. Another person needing my help. Nothing more.

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I lowered my hands and met his eyes. His expression wasn't cocky or cruel. It was tired. Unsure.

I took a slow breath. I could do this. Not for him. For myself. Because I was not the person he used to hurt.

"It's fine," I finally said, though I wasn't sure I meant it.

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Brian shook his head. "No, it's not. I was terrible to you. I made your life miserable, and I regret it more than you know. I can't take it back. I can't change the past. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to refuse to help me."

I met his gaze. "I am angry. I have been for years. But I won't refuse your treatment."

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Brian frowned. "Why? Are you planning to get revenge?"

I let out a short, humorless chuckle. "No."

"Then why?" His voice was quieter now, uncertain.

"Because I'm not like you," I said. "Because I have empathy. Because I want to make people's lives better, not worse. And because I can only imagine how hard this is for you."

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I hesitated, watching him closely. "I was born this way. This is my normal. You weren't. You had something and lost it. That must be painful."

Brian swallowed hard. His fingers gripped the wheels of his chair. "It is," he admitted, "but I don't understand…"

"I want to help you," I said. "That's all. I'll do everything I can to make things better for you. I have no interest in revenge. I'm not that kind of person."

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Brian nodded slowly. "I don’t know if I'd be as forgiving if our roles were reversed."

"I know," I said.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears. He blinked quickly, wiping them away before they could fall.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough.

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I gave a small nod.

"Really, Monica. Thank you," he repeated. "I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me."

I exhaled, then managed a small smile. "So, shall we start your therapy?"

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Brian let out a breath and nodded.

We turned toward the building.

As we walked, I spoke again. "And Brian? This isn't karma. It was just an accident. But we'll do our best to make things better."

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