I was halfway across campus, dodging cracks in the sidewalk and trying not to spill hot coffee on my shirt when I felt a light tap on my arm. I turned, expecting someone to ask for directions or maybe borrow a lighter—something quick I could brush off. Instead, there was this kid, barely out of high school by the look of him. Khakis too neat for a college freshman, lunch bag swinging from his hand like he was on a field trip.

“Hey, I know you from somewhere!” he said, all bright eyes and a grin too wide for that early in the day.

I pulled out my earbuds. “Yeah?”

“You were on the news! That story—about the guy who got hit, messed up his leg, and still came back to finish his degree.”

I blinked. “That was… yeah. That was me.”

He looked like he’d just spotted Iron Man at a Starbucks. “Dude, that’s so awesome. You looked cool, even with the crutches. Like, brave-cool.”

I didn’t know what to say. My knee still screamed in the mornings, and brave wasn’t exactly how I felt when I cried in the shower last week because the water hit just right and I slipped. But I smiled. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

“I’m Darren,” he said. “First semester here. I’ve got Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. It messes with my joints, so I use a scooter when it gets bad. Saw your setup and thought, ‘Hey, maybe I’ll be that confident someday.’”

I chuckled, more surprised at myself than at him. “Confidence is mostly pretending you’re not terrified.”

He laughed like that was the best thing he’d heard all week.

Then he asked, “Can I give you a hug? My mom says hugs are like vitamins. You look like you need one.”

Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe I actually did need one. I bent down and let him hug me. It wasn’t long, but it was real. He patted my back like we’d known each other forever and said, “Have a brave day,” then rolled away toward the student center like a tiny motivational speaker on wheels.

I stood there, earbuds dangling, smiling like a dork while everyone else hurried past. I was about to put my headphones back in when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

It was Darren again—but this time, the lunch bag was on the ground, and three guys were standing over him.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

One of the guys—tall, stringy, bad facial hair—was holding Darren’s scooter like it was a joke. “C’mon, man,” he was saying. “If you can walk, then walk. What, this thing just for show?”

Darren’s smile was gone. His eyes were doing that thing where they try not to cry, not out of fear, but out of embarrassment. He looked over, saw me, and gave this almost-invisible shake of the head—like, don’t get involved.

Too late.

“Hey,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Put that down.”

The three guys turned. One of them recognized me. “Oh, it’s the news guy. What, you gonna limp over here and teach us a lesson?”

“If I have to.”

There was a moment—half a second—when I thought they might swing. But something in my face must’ve said not today. The guy holding the scooter scoffed and dropped it.

“We were just kidding, man,” he said. “Relax.”

They walked off, laughing like idiots, disappearing into the crowd of indifferent students.

I helped Darren pick up his stuff. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Happens sometimes. People think if I’m not in a wheelchair, then I must be faking.”

“That’s garbage.”

“I know.”

There was a silence between us—not awkward, but weighty.

Then I said, “You wanna grab lunch?”

His face lit up again, and just like that, my day reset.

We started meeting once or twice a week after that. It wasn’t official or anything—just coffee here, lunch there. Sometimes we’d swap stories about physical therapy and pain scales. Other times, we’d just sit in the library and do our own thing, side by side. But the more we talked, the more I realized this kid had something most people didn’t: perspective.

“I used to think being different meant being less,” he told me once. “Now I think it just means you see the world from a cooler angle.”

I wasn’t trying to be anyone’s mentor, but it kind of just happened. I’d spot him in the quad, struggling with his backpack, and jog over to help—well, limp-jog. I noticed the same three jerks from before keeping their distance now, probably because word had spread. I wasn’t a tough guy, but I had a reputation, and that was enough.

One rainy Thursday, Darren showed up at my apartment with a pizza and a flyer.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s for a student mentorship program. I signed you up as my sponsor.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

He shrugged. “You already are. Might as well make it official.”

I stared at the flyer. Peer Guardian Program: Building bridges between students with disabilities and allies on campus.

“You really think I’m guardian material?”

He grinned. “Dude, you’ve literally defended me in public. That’s like textbook guardian behavior.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

That program changed things. We started meeting with other students—kids with mobility issues, chronic pain, invisible conditions. Some of them had been silently struggling for years, just waiting for someone to say, Yeah, I get it.

Darren and I co-led a weekly meet-up group called “Strong Enough.” He came up with the name. I just showed up and listened.

Eventually, the kid who once asked for a hug was the one giving speeches to first-years about resilience. And me? I started feeling like maybe my accident wasn’t just a detour—it was the beginning of something I didn’t even know I needed.

One afternoon, after a panel discussion we helped host, Darren turned to me and said, “You remember the first time we met?”

“How could I forget?”

“You looked so done with the day. Like you just needed… I dunno, a reminder.”

I smiled. “And you gave me one.”

“Well,” he said, “you returned the favor. In, like, a hundred ways.”

We walked back across campus together—he on his scooter, me still favoring my right leg but with a little more spring in my step. People passed us without a second glance, but this time, it didn’t feel like nothing.

It felt like everything.

So yeah, maybe I was just some guy trying to finish his degree with a busted leg and a half-functioning knee. But for one kid—and eventually a bunch of others—I became something more.

A reminder. A defender. A guardian.

And I think I kinda needed that too.

If this story hit you like it hit me that day—share it. Someone out there might be waiting for a reminder too. And hey, maybe you’ll be the one to give it.