Trevor didn't mention her again.
Not the nurse.
Not the look.
Not the moment she walked past him like he was a mop bucket with opinions.
But he didn't have to.
I saw it in how he moved slower that week.
How he paused just a little longer by the sinks.
How he stopped whistling under his breath when no one was watching.
It's the kind of silence you only hear when you've known someone long enough to recognize what's missing.
We were wiping down the med fridge when Marcus walked in holding a research journal.
"Do you know," he said without looking up, "that statistically, men between the ages of 25 and 40 report the highest rates of unspoken loneliness in Western healthcare professions?"
Jude blinked. "That's oddly specific."
Marcus shrugged. "Read it last night."
Trevor didn't react.
Marcus continued.
"It's not the lack of socialization that hurts them. It's the lack of being seen. Romantic rejection. Parental neglect. Repeated dismissal. Over time it—"
"Yeah," Trevor interrupted, voice quiet. "I know."
We all paused.
Not because he spoke.
But because he never did.
Jude set his spray bottle down. Softly.
Walked over. Not too close.
Then said, with zero irony:
"I'm certified in spiritual trauma."
Trevor gave him a tired look.
"That's not a real certification."
Jude nodded solemnly. "Neither is emotional starvation, but it still kills people."
The room sat in stillness.
Not heavy.
Just... full.
Trevor leaned against the counter.
Didn't make eye contact.
"My mom used to leave me notes instead of talking.
Like… sticky notes. On the fridge.
'Clean up after yourself.'
'Don't forget to be useful.'
'Stop crying, you're not hurt.'"
He exhaled.
"So when someone looks at me like I'm not even there… I don't get angry. I just think, yeah. That tracks."
No one spoke.
Then Jude said:
"My dad once told me if I couldn't stop crying, he'd give me something to cry about."
Trevor looked up.
"Did he?"
"No," Jude said. "My mom did."
Trevor let out a single breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
Marcus stepped forward. Held up his journal.
"You know what the article didn't say?
That loneliness in men gets fixed by therapy or vacations.
It said it gets fixed when someone gives a damn and doesn't try to fix you."
I stepped in.
"You're not invisible, Trevor."
"I feel it."
"Feeling it doesn't make it true."
"Then why does it still hurt?"
Everett spoke from behind us.
None of us had seen him enter. He was just... there.
As usual.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't offer a solution.
He just stepped beside Trevor. Quiet.
Then said:
"Things unsaid still hurt.
That doesn't make them lies.
It just means the wound doesn't know where to go."
He handed Trevor a folded towel.
Not a mop towel.
A clean, pressed linen. The kind used for newborn bassinets.
"Some people fold these for others.
Some people never got folded for at all."
Trevor held it. Didn't speak.
Everett stepped away.
Later that night, I found Trevor by the vending machines.
He was staring at the selections like they were hiding a deeper answer.
"You think I'm messed up?"
"I think you're layered."
"You think I'll ever be someone a woman really sees?"
I paused.
"You already are. She just hasn't slowed down enough to see you yet."
He didn't reply.
But when we walked back toward the ward, I saw him take the folded linen out of his pocket.
He didn't press it to his face.
Didn't clutch it.
He just held it.
Like maybe—for once—something had been folded for him.