"Sketches Of Us"

Maya had always been fiercely independent. Diagnosed with muscular dystrophy in her teens, she learned early on how to navigate a world not designed for her. Her wheelchair didn’t slow her down—it was part of her rhythm, her freedom. From navigating uneven sidewalks to rerouting through inaccessible buildings, she met life head-on, sketchpad always within reach. As a freelance illustrator, she found solace and inspiration in the little moments—particularly those spent sketching in the park near her apartment in Seattle.

It was there that she met Aidan.

He was tall, quiet, and wore headphones like armor. His cane, subtle and understated, hinted at something deeper than just a bad knee. Maya noticed how he moved slowly, deliberately, like every step was a negotiation between will and pain. One afternoon, as golden light filtered through the trees, she offered him a seat on the bench beside her sketchpad.

"Chronic pain?" she asked gently, the way one soul recognizes another.

He nodded. “Spinal injury. Motorcycle accident. Two years ago.”

Their conversations started tentatively, but quickly unfolded into something honest and raw. Aidan spoke of the wreckage the accident left behind—not just in his spine, but in his sense of self. He'd lost mobility, a relationship, and for a time, the will to be fully seen. Maya listened with the quiet understanding of someone who knew how people’s perceptions could flatten you into an inspiration poster instead of a full human being.

They bonded over shared truths. The grief of changed bodies. The loneliness of being misunderstood. The longing to be loved without pity or pedestal.

What began as weekly chats on the park bench turned into daily texts, phone calls, coffee dates, and then a slow, cautious kind of affection. There was no grand cinematic kiss, no fireworks—just two people learning to trust in a world that had taught them to be guarded.

But healing, they soon discovered, wasn’t linear.

Aidan began to pull away. Messages got shorter. Plans got canceled. The distance stung Maya deeply, echoing the old wounds of being left behind. She withdrew too, retreating into her work, pretending she didn’t care even when every sketch line told on her.

Weeks passed in silence.

Then one rainy evening, there was a knock on Maya’s door.

She opened it to find Aidan—soaked, awkward, but resolute. In his hand, he held his phone. On the screen was a browser open to mindengage.com.

“I’ve been talking to someone,” he said, his voice low. “On MindEngage. It’s an online therapy platform. I didn’t realize how much I’d been pushing you away because I was scared—of being seen, of being loved, of not being enough.”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to keep sabotaging the good things. I don’t want to lose this before it even begins.”

Maya blinked back tears. She didn’t say anything at first—just reached for his hand and gently pulled him inside.

Over time, things didn’t magically become easy, but they did become real. They built something steady with patience, vulnerability, and shared laughter over late-night ramen. On tough days, they reminded each other: therapy wasn’t just for crisis—it was a tool to unlearn, rebuild, and grow. Aidan continued his sessions on MindEngage, often sharing what he was learning. Maya eventually signed up too, curious about her own patterns and fears.

Their love story wasn’t about grand declarations or overcoming disability. It was about showing up—flawed, messy, human—and choosing each other anyway.

Because love isn’t about fixing each other.

It’s about being brave enough to heal, together.