This is the last part of my short story, Friends. Please, would you correct my mistakes.

If someone wanted to sit beside him at the meals, Omer would tell them that the seat was occupied by his friend Milan. The patients would stare at him incredulously, but their innate fear of conflict prevented them from arguing with him. They complained to Dr Karlsson, but he did not have the heart to impose strict rules on the poor surgeon . Neither did he oppose when Omer demanded a second chair during the interviews. He explained Dr Karlsson that he had to consult with his friend, which he did, talking to the Dr Karlsson in Swedish and then switching to Bosnian and then again to Swedish.
Dr Karlsson and his colleagues were more amused and more intrigued by Omer’s behaviour each day, but for Merima these were the most difficult moments of her life. She used to visit her husband at least once a week hoping that a miracle would happen and he was going to return home as a healthy and sane man, but to her chagrin, Omer was becoming more obsessed with Milan. Lately, he completely ignored her, not even asking her about Selma and how they managed without him. The worst of all was that he started talking about eternal love between him and Milan, and that they were going to form a civil partnership and live like a couple. “Thank God, we live in the most liberal country on earth,” he said.

Merima returned home completely broken. She cried inconsolably day after day and took sedatives. “Don’t be silly my daughter,” her mother told her over a bad telephone connection. “There’re thousands of young Bosnian men with a PhD diploma eager to move to Sweden. You can bring in a handsome, young, intelligent man who is going to treat you like a queen. He’ll be so grateful that you’ve given him a chance to a better life that he is going to wash your feet every evening.” After that conversation, Merima began divorce proceedings.
Omer stayed in the hospital for about one year, and then the authorities had decided that he should move to his own flat, because the costs for his stay and treatment, which did not show any success, were considerable. Dr Karlsson fought to keep him inside because Omer’s everyday performances made him laugh a lot, but the authorities were implacable - Dr Osmanovic was incurable and not worth spending any money or effort. He was discarded in a neglected ghetto where he had to live together with other “untreatable” people: drug addicts, alcoholics, single mothers, jobless, failed artists and deranged intellectuals. Omer got a two room flat, which he modestly furnished with IKEA products. He bought a double bed, so that he and Milan could sleep comfortably, and two cosy armchairs, in which two friends were going to spend hours exchanging their thoughts. This was the happiest period of his life, when he and his friend could talk for days and nights without being disturbed, experiencing true love, which only lifelong friends can feel for each other.
Being all the time with his faithful friend, Omer did not have need for other people. He would go out shopping, and take a stroll through the town or in the park, where he and Milan would sit on the bench and enjoy the rich scents of trees and twittering of birds. Once a month he would go to the bank to receive money from welfare. The only other person, besides Milan, who came closer to him, was a Kurdish man from Iraq, called Newroz, the owner of a café where Omer went every morning. He would always order two coffees, and Newroz would dutifully bring them without ever questioning Omer about the second cup. He would watch silently Omer talking to his imaginary friend and he thought pity of him. Therefore, he would never charge him for that another coffee; it was always on the house. Newroz knew well how it felt talking to a “friend”. Sometimes, he was talking to Saddam Hussein, but that was a secret he would take with him into his grave.