Snapshots of Faith

The morning sunlight filtered down the hallway as I dragged myself through another rehab. I was tired, sore, and a little lost but then she was there. She immediately helped me: a warm shower, some food, and a nap that felt like the first real rest I'd had in days. I remember thinking, she's really good at her job.
She didn't just do what was required she noticed what mattered to me. She helped me get my guitar to rehab, and even got me cigarettes, small acts that felt strangely comforting in a place that was otherwise overwhelming.
One chaotic morning, someone stole my cigarettes. I grabbed the railing and jumped on it in frustration. She thought it was hilarious, got me a new pack, and later watched the replay on the camera with her mom. It was absurd, funny, human exactly the kind of memory that makes me smile even now.
I remember the tiny moments, too holding the door for her while people got off the bus, the way she smiled when she saw me in the morning, the silent glance in the hallway that somehow made me realize I had feelings I couldn't name. Moments of trust, partnership, and connection, no drama attached just normal, human care.
Sometimes I wonder if she misses me, but those thoughts are soft, like the ache that lingers in the background there, but fading over time. I didn't always understand her intentions, and I didn't always know my own, but these snapshots, these tiny pieces of our days together, are enough to remind me what it feels like to be seen, supported, and acknowledged. Then everything changed.