She doesn’t smile anymore.

I wonder why.

She used to smile all the time, about the littlest things, about things that didn’t really matter. She used to smile when she talked about how happy she was that the sun was out, about how glad she was that the rain wasn’t falling. She used to smile when she saw that she got a good grade on a test she studied hard for, or when someone would lend her a piece of notebook paper. She’d do it all - receive, give - she’d do it all with a smile.

But she doesn’t smile anymore.

She seems lonely now. She seems lonely, even when she’s in a group of people who love her, even when the teacher is talking to her and she’s nodding her head like she understands. She seems lonely, and sad, and just so vulnerable, and I don’t know why she looks like that, because she’s never looked like that before. Even if she pretended to smile, there was still a sparkle, a light in her eyes. But now, there’s no sparkle. There’s no light. Her irises are dull. There’s nothing but gray, gray, gray - the color of rain, the color of angry clouds, the color of insipid dew - in her eyes.

I wish I could talk to her. It probably wouldn’t be too hard. Everybody talks to her. People she doesn’t even know talk to her, and she never turns them away. She always greets them with that smile, that smile I’m starting to miss. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to talk to her. Even though I want to, even though I want to know so bad why she is like this now. I think I don’t really want to know, and I think I’m scared, if only a little bit, that what she will say will make me regret ever asking her.

Or maybe those are all excuses. Do I want to talk to her because she’s sad, and I want to make her feel better? Or do I want to talk to her just so I can hear her voice?

I’ve been going to school with her for five years, and I don’t think she knows I like her. For five years, I’ve liked her. No, how I liked her when I was younger doesn’t count, because those emotions were fueled by my puerility. I guess a more accurate description is that I’ve liked her for three years. Yes, that sounds about right. I’ll go with that.

I’ve had a crush on her for three years. I’ve only talked with her a few times, like when the teacher would pair us up to do class assignments. She was always nice to me back then (she’s still nice to me now), and she’d always ask me what I thought about this, and about that, and do you think the answer is fifty-nine, or is it sixteen?

“I don’t know,” I’d say. I don’t know. And I’d just pretend to pay attention to what she’s saying, but really all her words are whizzing by my ear, and all I can see is how she shakes her head and how those beautiful lips curve into a smile, and how her hair falls over her eyes when she ducks her head to think hard about something. That’s all I’d see. And by the time the class period was over, I’d realize I had no idea what I was supposed to be learning, but it doesn’t really matter, because I was just glad I got to talk to her.

I wonder if we’ll have any more class projects together. It’s already the second semester, and none of my teachers have assigned anything. I wonder why. Maybe they just don’t feel like doing it this year.

I guess I’ve been thinking too much these days.

-----

She didn’t come to school today. I know, because she wasn’t in my English class, and she didn’t show up at the cafeteria. I know, because I looked for her, and I didn’t find her. I didn’t find her, and I wish I did, and I would’ve gone to her house and knocked on her door, except I don’t know where she lives, and I would have called her, but I don’t have her number.

I wish I did. If I knew her address, and if I had her number, that meant we were friends, right? And yet, I don’t have any of those things. So I guess we’re not friends, but more like acquaintances. I hope we become friends in the future. I hope we become close friends. I want to be able to ask her how she is without feeling scared to hear the answer.

I’d ask her friends about her, but she hangs out in a different circle than I do. Her friends are all bright and cheery, just like her. And me? Well … I don’t know. I have people I talk to, but I don’t really hang out with them. We exchange homework notes and borrow pencils from each other, but I don’t really know them. So I guess they’re just my acquaintances, too.

I guess a lot of the things I do, I do alone. Like doing my homework. I’ve never done homework with someone else before. And at the cafeteria, I eat alone. Well, no, I sit with my ‘acquaintances’, but it still feels like I’m sitting alone. Maybe I should try harder to talk to people. Who knows? Maybe they don’t want me to be their acquaintance, either. Maybe someone is looking for me to be his close friend, just like I’m looking for one.

No, that’s probably not true, because if they wanted me to be their close friend, they’d speak up and approach me. Then again, I’m not really one to talk.

-----

I bought a box of chocolates yesterday. The lady at the shop was looking at me weird when I went into the store to buy them. I think it’s because of my clothes. I was wearing my oldest, baggiest pants, and a pullover with a fraying hem. I guess I looked out of place in her clean, classy shop, and I think she was looking at me like I was going to steal something, which I didn’t.

Anyway, I bought a box of chocolates. There are six pieces in it, organized in a square. Six truffles. There is a small bow in the front of the box, but I thought it looked too saccharine, so I ripped it off before I left the house. Now there’s a scratch where the bow had been, so I drew over it with a highlighter and made a smiley face. I’m kind of regretting it now. The box just looks tacky and cheap.

I hope she’ll accept it.

I bought this for her. The chocolate, that is. I bought it hoping she’d be at school. It’s sort of my way of breaking the ice. It’s in my backpack right now, and as I walk across the hall, I can feel it thumping against my back, scratching me with its corners. It’s uncomfortable, but I’ll endure it for now, because it’s not going to be mine for much longer, anyway.

I don’t know why I bought this. I don’t normally do things like this. I don’t like being sweet, but I decided last night that I’d make an exception for her. Because I want to see her smile. That’s a good enough reason, right? But still, I can’t deny that I’m embarrassed to walk around school with a truffle box in my backpack, even if no one can see it.

I see her in the cafeteria. She’s sitting with her friends, and she’s talking to them, and she’s laughing, but I don’t think she means it. She looks lonely. I wonder if I look like that, too, around my friends. Oops, I’m sorry, I meant, acquaintances.

I think I’ll give it to her after school.

Time crawls. It always crawls when you’re waiting for something to happen. The bell for the last class finally rings, so I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I can feel that truffle box again. Maybe I should get a new backpack, since obviously the one I have now is too thin.

I look for her in the parking lot. She usually walks home, so I guess she lives close by. I see her friends huddled around the bus stop, tossing their hair and pulling out their phones. She’s not next to them, so after I gather up some confidence, I walk up to her group. They stare at me like I’ve got three heads. I don’t know why. I’m not that strange. At least, I don’t think I am.

“What’s up?” One girl asks me. She’s chewing on her lollipop. I don’t think she’s aware that a strand of her hair is sticking to her candy.

I tell her who I’m looking for, and she exchanges a look with her friends before she says, “She left already.”

“She did?”

“That’s what I said. Why?”

“Never mind,” I say, and turn away. I don’t need to tell her why. She might laugh at me. I really get the feeling she’ll laugh at me if I tell her I have a truffle box to give. I turn around and walk away, and she calls after me, asking me why I asked, asking me why I’m walking away when she’s not even done talking to me, but I ignore her, because that’s just who I am, because I don’t like talking to people who don’t like talking to me.

She couldn’t have left too long ago. School has only just finished. I eye the sidewalks, looking for the familiar shape of her figure, looking for any clue of where she is or which way she could have gone. People are driving out of the school parking lot, and slowly, the school becomes empty. It starts to pour, and I should really get home, because if I stay out here I’ll get drenched and wet, and my backpack will get soaked, and so will my clothes, but if I go home just to avoid the rain, I won’t be able to give the truffle box to her, and something is urging me, telling me, that I have to give this to her today.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I never go out of my way to get myself wet. And yet here I am, running in the rain, pretending that I can’t feel the way those drops of water fall on my nose. My clothes start to stick to my skin. My shoes start to squeak with each step I take. But I don’t stop, because I have to find her. I don’t know why this is so important; all I know is that I have to give this to her today.

I don’t really know where I’m going. I think I’m in her neighborhood, but I’m not sure. I’m a little lost, and tired, and a little annoyed. I wonder if this is a stupid decision. Maybe I shouldn’t have been reckless. What am I doing, purposefully getting sick? I’m about to give up when a voice stops me.

“Junhong?”

I freeze. That’s her voice. That’s her voice, calling me. She’s behind me, and yet she knows it’s me, even if I’m dripping wet and I probably don’t look that good. I turn around, slowly, and I find her standing there, holding up a white umbrella over her head, her eyes wide when she takes in my situation.

“What are you doing out in the rain? You’re going to get sick.”

I don’t really care about that. I don’t really care if I get sick. I’m just glad she’s talking to me. I’m just glad I can hear her voice.

“I have something for you,” I say, ping the front pocket of my backpack and pulling out the truffle box. I walk forward and hold it out to her, making sure that the umbrella is protecting it from drops of rain. Her eyes stare at that smiley face I drew on the box, and slightly ashamed, I say, “There was a bow on it. But I ripped it off.”

“Why’s that?” She asks, slowly taking it.

“I didn’t like how it looked.”

“Oh” is all she says as she stares at the box. “I … what’s this?”

“It’s a truffle box,” I say, feeling stupid for saying it out loud. It feels so out of character for me, doing this. But I just want to see her smile. I just miss that. And if I have to lose my sense of intelligence to see her smile, then I will. 

She looks up at me then, staring at me with those beautiful, lonely eyes. And for the first time in a long time, she smiles. It only lasts for a second, and I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been watching her so closely. But it’s there, just a hint of a smile, just a subtle sign, and it’s enough for me to make my day.

-----

Today, I found out why she missed school. I think the reason is the same for why she’s been looking so down lately.

Apparently, one of her neighbors got sick. Nobody knows about him. Nobody knows who he is, not even her circle of friends. I think they just pretend to know him. I can tell by the way they talk about him, because the only things they discuss are his name and face. They say nothing about his personality, his characteristics, or what makes him special to her. They don’t say any of that. Maybe they’re just discussing it for her benefit, or maybe they just want something to gossip about. Either way, I’m thankful for them talking about it, although I’m guilty about eavesdropping. But at least I know now why she’s been the way she is.

She visited him at the hospital during the morning. That’s why she missed school. I think her friend is sick with some sort of terminal illness. When people talk about him, they talk with hushed voiced, voices that are afraid to be heard and yet are still distinct in the din of the cafeteria. I find it strange how people talk about dire subjects like those in such confidential tones, and yet they debate about the matter in a public area. If you’re going to try to keep something a secret, you should do it more discreetly.

Sorry. It’s just a pet peeve of mine.

I wonder how close they are to each other. He’s her neighbor, and yet, she visits him at the hospital. I don’t have neighbors like that. All of my neighbors are older than me by about twenty years, and I think that if they got sick, I wouldn’t visit them. It’s not that I don’t care about their welfare; I do. But I wouldn’t go out of my way to assure them of their safety when I barely talk to them on a day-to-day basis.

Maybe she’s just being nice. That’s what I try to assure myself. But if she were just being nice, would she look so sullen? Would her eyes be so downcast? I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d get that upset after visiting a sickened neighbor.

He obviously means something to her. But what? I don’t really know. I’d like to know, but I can’t ask her that. There isn’t an easy way for me to introduce the topic in our conversations, and even then, we don’t converse a lot.

-----

I think I’m starting to get sick. I know it’s my fault for having stayed in the rain five days ago, but I had to do it. I don’t know why, I just know that I had to. Sometimes things don’t make sense while they’re happening, and even when they’re over they’re still incomprehensible. It was just a feeling that I couldn’t describe. I felt like I had a mission to accomplish, and if I didn’t do it, I’d fail at something. At what, I don’t know. But I’d fail, and I don’t like failing, because I always feel worthless when I do.

-----

I got to talk to her in the halls today. It was a really short conversation, but it made me happy. She looked pretty today. Well, she always looks pretty, but she looked prettier, for some reason. Maybe it’s because her cheeks were red. She just looked … alive, if only for a day, and I guess that’s what makes her so attractive to me.

“Did you like the chocolates?” I had asked her. She stopped, smiled, and nodded.

“I did. I shared them with my friend. I hope you don’t mind.”

I don’t know what friend she was talking about, and yes, I do mind, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. I just smiled, and nodded back, and she gave me a little wave before I said, “That’s fine,” and then she’s gone, lost in the crowd, and I just wish the schedule in our school would stop being so busy so that I’d actually get to have a decent, proper conversation with her for once.

-----

I hear she’s going to the hospital today. I’m going. I’m going, right now, and I’m walking there, and I don’t care how long it takes. Maybe it’s wrong for me to visit her at the hospital. She won’t be expecting me. And she’s there to see someone who is sick, someone whom I don’t even know. But … but I want to give her something.

I saw this flower on my way to school today. I’ve never seen it before. It is white. It is very, very small, and the petals are fragile, but it is the simplest, most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and for some reason it made me think of her. So, I’m going to give it to her. I hope she doesn’t mind handpicked flowers.

I open the door to the hospital. The receptionist asks me whom I’m here to see, but I stutter, because I don’t know the name of the guy that’s her best friend. So I just ask her if she’s seen this girl lately, and I start to describe to her what my crush looks like. She probably thinks I’m crazy, but she tells me what room I need to go to find her, so I thank the lady and hurry off.

I find the room quickly enough. The flower is in my hand. I think I’m crushing it. I open my hand a little to make sure, and I smile when I see that it looks as good as when I had picked it this morning. I open the door to the hospital room, the hinges creaking at my presence, and I see her sitting there, holding the hand of that bed-ridden person.

I think she’s crying. I don’t know what to do. Her shoulders are shaking, and I can hear her sobs.

I never knew it would hurt so much to see someone cry.

I don’t know what to do. Move forward? Go back? But I’m here now. It would be pointless to go home. So I step forward, and she hears me, and she hurriedly wipes her tears away.

“Hi,” she croaks, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

I don’t know why, but she still manages to look pretty even with those tears streaking down her face. I clear my throat and look away, not wanting my emotions to seem obvious. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh” is all she says as she attempts to regain her composure. She lets go of that guy’s hand and starts to furiously dab her eyes, frustrated at having looked vulnerable and weak for once. I don’t mind that she looks so imperfect. It’s like she’s given me a secret to keep. And that connects us, in a way.

“Do you know him?” She asks suddenly, taking a deep breath and finally looking at me. Her eyes are glazed with fresh tears, but she holds herself back.

“No,” I say, observing the boy on the bed. There is a huge scar on one side of his face, and the top of his head is wrapped in bandages. His eyes are closed.

She looks at me questioningly, and I know what she wants to ask. What am I doing here, visiting a hospital room when I don’t even know the patient?

“I’ve got something for you,” I say suddenly before I lose my nerve. The way she’s looking at me makes me uneasy. I uncurl my hand to show the flower, its long stem still a vibrant color of green, its fleeting white petals still present. It’s small. It looks so small in my hand, and I stutter, getting nervous, and say, “I … found this. Do you … do you want it?”

“Is that for me?” She asks tentatively, her hand slowly reaching out. I gently lay the flower on her open palm, and she stares at it.

“Do you … like it?” I ask her. She fingers the soft petals, the fuzzy thin layer of hair that lines the stem, and smiles. Smiles, really smiles, a smile that reaches her eyes, a smile where not only can I see her happiness, but I can feel it, too.

“I do,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

-----

She told me to come visit her friend again. I think she knows the real reason why I came to the hospital that day, but she hasn’t said anything about it, so I’m not about to say anything about it, either. I guess I feel a twinge of conscience when I think about how I’m visiting the hospital because of her, and not because of her friend. So this time, I’m going to bring a box of chocolates, and I’m going to give it to that guy.

She’s not crying this time. She sits on the chair, reading a book, the most focused expression on her face. She looks sweet like that. Calm, composed; a completely different image from what I had seen before. I almost wish she’d look sad, though, just so that I’d have an excuse to comfort her.

Noticing that I’m here, she looks up and closes her book in the process, marking her page by folding a corner. She places it on the foot of the bed and smiles at me, but it’s a detached, cold smile that I don’t feel. I hold the chocolates in my hand and approach the bed, placing it gently beside her book.

“Chocolates?” She asks me.

“It’s for him,” I say, looking at the guy with the bandaged head.

“Really?” She asks me, her face lighting up, and her reaction assures me that I’ve done the right thing. “He … “ her tone lessens, and she murmurs wistfully, “He loves chocolates.”

“He can have this when he wakes up,” I say, tapping on the box. She meets my eyes and shakes her head, disagreeing with my suggestions.

“No … that won’t come for a while yet, I think.”

I stare at that young boy lying down on the bed, peacefully keeping his eyes closed. He has a defined jaw and broad shoulders. He seems to be an attractive guy, although I can’t completely criticize him since the majority of his face is covered.

“How do you know him?” I ask her.

“He’s my neighbor,” she replies simply, then adds, “and my best friend.”

Best friend. For some reason, the only thing I can focus on is the fact that he has a title I have yet to achieve.

“How did he … what happened?” I settle for this question. She gives her friend a considering look and sighs.

“He got into a traffic accident. A motorcycle hit his car, they overturned, he … he got into a coma, in other words,” she tries to laugh, her voice bitter. “I don’t know when … he’ll wake up. But I hope he will, soon. I was hoping … I was hoping he’d wake up today.”

“Today?” I ask her. “Why today?”

Her lips turn into a wry smile when she replies, “Because today is my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” I burst out, feeling frustrated at myself for having chosen today, of all days, to give chocolates to the guy instead of the girl. I have nothing to give her, and it wouldn’t be right to give her the chocolates that had originally been intended for her friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t … “ Nothing. I have nothing to give her, and as I stare at my empty hands, trying to swallow the guilt down, I decide, “Do you want a hug?”

It’s not something I normally say. Saying sweet things like that … I don’t like saying them so out rightly because it makes me uncomfortable. But she looks like she needs it, and I don’t mind giving her one, so I say it, and I wait, and I wait, and I wait a little bit more as she stares at me, a hint of surprise in her dull eyes.

But then she smiles, one of those rare smiles that actually reaches her eyes, and replies, “Could you?” Her voice sounds so lonely, so lost. I nod, and I carefully reach over to pull her close, holding her tightly to my chest and wrapping my arms around her waist. I breathe in the smell of her shampoo, the smell that is simply her, and I can feel her weak body as she firmly grips me, as if I’m a sort of life line that will keep her tethered to the ground. “Thank you,” she whispers. I don’t hear her words, but I can feel her murmur against my chest, and I know for a fact that I’m blushing now, so I don’t let her pull away. I resolve not to let her go until my embarrassment subsides, and when it does, I finally release her from my arms and watch as she blinks away the tears that had begun to appear.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, as if there’s anything to be sorry for.

“For what?”

“For almost crying,” she smiles through her glistening eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t really … I’m just really … “

“Sad,” I finish for her. An easy completion. One word. But she looks at me like she’s finally found someone who understands, and she gives me a smile that shows trust and confidentiality, so I smile back, desperate to hold onto this brief connection that’s blossomed between us.

“Yeah,” she nods. “I’m sad.” She looks away, and without turning to me, asks, “Are you … busy?”

“I’m not.”

“Could you … stay?” She bashfully asks. “Could you stay with me and – “

“Of course I will,” I scoff. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it? Of course I’ll stay. And I’ll come tomorrow, and the next day, and the next – “

“ – oh, you don’t have to do that – “

“ – but I will,” I tell her. “I’ll do that. I’ll come as many times as I can until … “ Until you smile. That’s what I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to declare that to her. I can’t do it. I think I’ve said enough heartfelt sentences to besmirch my reputation. And plus, saying what I feel just isn’t cool anymore.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. I’ve been hearing those words a lot lately, but I don’t mind. They’re nice words. Very nice eight letter words.

-----

I come the next day. And the next, and the next. Just like I promised her I would. I still feel guilty visiting the hospital just to see her, but she doesn’t seem to mind it. If anything, her mood gets better when I come, so I’ll take that as proof that I’m helping her more than I’m annoying her.

We talk about a lot of things. She likes to tell me stories about her friend, about what he had been like as a child. I listen. I think she’s aware about how long she goes, recounting memories that I can’t ever relate to, but I let her talk for as long as she wants, anyways. It’s her way of letting go of herself, I think. Telling stories about people other than herself. I think she likes estranging herself. I understand that.

I never would have expected this, but we’ve grown closer. She’s opened up to me. Bit, by bit, by bit, she’ll tell me what makes her happy, what makes her smile, and I store it all in my head so that I can reference back to it later. What does she like? The little things. Things people don’t pay attention to. I knew that already, of course, but it was nice hearing her say it. Saying something I already knew.

But that’s not all she tells me, either. Sometimes, in those rare moments when silence comes and empty, surface words won’t fill the space, she’ll tell me things about herself that I don’t think she’s ever told her group of friends. Sometimes, she’ll tell me what she’s insecure about, what she’s afraid of (that he might never wake up). Sometimes, it hurts to watch her talk about him, because I can see how much he means to her. I know it’s selfish for me to think that. I shouldn’t feel envious about a guy who isn’t even aware of me. But, still. I almost want him to wake up already just so I can challenge him. But if he woke, I wouldn’t be able to visit her at the hospital anymore.

Her friends talk to me sometimes. I think they know that I like her. In fact, I’m sure they know. I’ve been getting some really strange looks in the hallways lately, and I’m sure they’re wondering why a guy like me would show interest in a girl like her.

Why wouldn’t I notice her? She’s amazing.

I don’t think she knows how precious she is.

She’s getting better. I think she feels responsible for the accident, but she won’t tell me why. I want to ask her, but I don’t want to rub salt in an old wound. She’s already beginning to trust me. I don’t want to compromise our fragile friendship.

-----

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve started visiting her. She trusts me more, I think, and I’m glad I can be that someone for her. I think that her ‘someone’ was that boy lying down in that bed. (Doesn’t he know she’s waiting for him? He should wake up already). And I’m not saying I replaced his place in her heart. But I think that I’ve earned a place, whatever that place is. Maybe its secondary to the place he has. Or maybe its on par to the place he has. Whatever it is, this position, I’m glad I have it. I’m just glad she can talk to me about things. I’m just glad we’re not ‘acquaintances’ anymore.

She looks pretty today. I don’t know what girls do to make themselves prettier, but I think they look best when they don’t try that hard. She’s just wearing a sweater, and jeans, and her hair is messy, but she looks pretty. I don’t know why. But I don’t really care. I’m not going to question the wonders of being female. (Ha, ha)

She has a cup of coffee in her hands, and she’s smiling down at it wistfully like she’s recalling a memory. It makes me sad, seeing her like that. I know that she’s thinking about the past, and if that makes her happy, then I’m glad. But I wish she’d think about the present, or the future, too. I think she doesn’t think about those things anymore. Or maybe she does, but the only future she sees is a sad one. She probably doesn’t think her friend will ever wake up.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her. She looks up at me, her eyes startled, as if she has forgotten I am here.

She grins widely. “I was just thinking about this one time when he came over … it was snowing … I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my life, but … “ she tells her story in bits and pieces, and while I don’t get much of it, I enjoy listening to her talk. I just like the way her voice lilts when she tells me the story. It’s pretty. But then her face darkens, as if she’s remembered something ugly, and she stops talking entirely.

I look at her, concerned, worried, and ask, “Are you okay?”

“No,” she answers honestly, meeting my eyes. They look lonely again. Lonely, and mad. “I’m not. I just … “

“It’s about him, isn’t it?” I whisper, trying to understand. I wish she’d tell me. Why does she feel so guilty? That is the only reason I can think of that she’d be so encouraged to visit her best friend every day. I don’t know anybody who would do that, who would go out of their way to visit the hospital. Every day. Every day? That’s … a lot of times.

She takes a shuddering breath that shakes her body, and her eyes tear up, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been at a loss for words in my life, not like I am now, as I watch her crumble in front of me. I want to reach out. I want to, but she looks so fragile, and I fear that if I touch her, she’ll shatter.

“He shouldn’t have come,” she sobs, covering her face so that I won’t have to see her cry. “He shouldn’t have … “ I just keep quiet, waiting, letting her find her words until she continues, “that day … he got into an accident, I … he came to visit me. I didn’t know about it. He was surprising me with something he found in some thrift store, he bought something for me I guess, and he just decided to come find me, and I wasn’t home, so he went looking for me, and he … he … he got hurt,” she mutters. Her words cut me. I can feel her pain, and I can feel hear apprehension. “He got hurt because of me,” she barely gets out. She stares at the ground, but her eyes are dull. She isn’t seeing anything. “He’s in this bed because of me.”

“No,” I say, getting up abruptly. She looks at me tiredly, almost numbly, as I plead with her to please, please, please understand that it’s not your fault. “It’s not. It wasn’t because of you.”

“What are you talking about?” She protests. She seems to be looking for someone to blame. And she seems to think that herself is the only person deserving of that blame. Why do people like to hurt so much? Does it feel better to carry guilt rather than feeling sorry for a person? Is it easier to be mad at yourself?

But I shouldn’t question that. Because I do that, too.

“He shouldn’t have come,” she adds. “If I had been home, he wouldn’t have had to … he wouldn’t have needed to … “

“Don’t think about that,” I tell her. She looks so small, so vulnerable, and so weak. All I want to do is see her smile again. “Think about how he got something for you,” I say, desperate. “Think about how he was thinking about you. He was thinking about you,” I repeat as she sobs again. “You. Don’t think about how he could have taken a different route, or how you should have been home, or how it was because of you that he’s like this.” I kneel down on the ground so I can look at her in the same eye-level. Slowly, I take her hand and feel those shaking fingers underneath my touch. She’s so scared. She’s so angry with herself. “It’s not your fault,” I whisper firmly. “It’s not.”

She takes her time crying, and I don’t stop her. It’s okay for her to cry. I prefer seeing her happy, but I think that if she has to cry first before she can smile, then I can allow that. I grip her hands tightly, feel her emotions speak underneath my palm. And I can’t stop myself anymore. I’m holding myself back from touching her completely, from holding her completely, and I can’t hold back anymore. Does she honestly expect me not to do anything? Does she think I’ll just stand here and watch her cry?

Well, I won’t. And before I can stop my hands, my arms, from moving, she’s in my embrace, and her head is on my chest. I hope she can hear my heart, and I hope that it gives her a sense of comfort. She’s trembling. So I hug her tighter, hug her until I can feel her tears soak my shirt, until I can feel her against me, pushing me, quietly telling me to please, please, never let go.

So I don’t. I don’t let her go. And I hold her, right there, in the middle of that hospital room, with her best friend as witness.

I’ve never felt more alive in my life.

-----

I think she likes me. Well, she hasn’t told me that, but I think she does. I can feel it. You know? When someone likes you … you can feel it. You can sense it, even if you don’t see it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.

But yesterday, she held my hand. She just randomly reached out and took it, and she smiled at me confidentially like we had a secret. And maybe we do. Maybe that moment of her crying and my holding her is a secret. I don’t mind. I won’t tell anybody about it. I’d rather keep that memory to myself.

Today, she smiled at me, in that beautiful way that reaches her eyes, in that way that stirs my heart, in that way that confuses my mind. I don’t want to sound over confident, but I’m pretty sure that was a smile reserved for only me. It makes me happy that I can make her smile like that, smile like I’m the only person who could do it.

I wonder if he has ever made her smile like that.

-----

It’s been another week. She definitely likes me. It’s official. I think she’s afraid to vocally tell me, though. I try to understand that, but I still wish she’d just say it already. Well, she doesn’t have to do anything overly obvious. But I’d just like the proof to be more evident. Evident enough that other people can see.

Did I tell you? She doesn’t hang out with her group of friends anymore. I wonder why. She hasn’t told me, but I won’t ask her. She seems happier. And I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t hang out with them anymore, or because I’m always with her. I hope it’s the latter. Or maybe it’s both.

-----

I’m in the hospital again. It’s late; around 12am. I’m waiting for her to get up. I want to leave and go home, but she’s asleep, and I don’t want her to wake up tomorrow morning and find that I’ve disappeared. If it were me, I’d want my friend to say goodbye first. So, I’m waiting. Even though I know she probably won’t wake up until tomorrow. At least I have an excuse to stay a little bit longer. I could tell my parents I just forgot the time.

But I really am tired, and I want to go home, to a nice, comfy bed. She looks so peaceful, sleeping in the chair. The window is open, and the moon peeks through the glass, casting a kaleidoscope of shades of blue on her closed eyelids. She looks so pretty. She looks unreal. I think that’s a weird way to describe somebody, but that’s what she looks like right now, like she’s just a dream, and if I blink, she’ll vanish.

I stand up and carefully approach her, being cautious not to make any loud movements. I think I should go home. I don’t want to, but I should. I want to write a note, tell her where I’m going, but I can’t find a pen or paper. I’m closer to her now, close enough to see the pattern of her skin, to see the shape of her eyes, her nose, ; all beautiful things. All things I want to touch, right now. But I can’t do that. It’s like I’m attacking her in her sleep. That’s not very nice.

I decide to give her a little goodbye kiss, instead, but as I lean in close to let my lips brush her forehead, I lose my nerve. Instead, I press my fingers to my lips, and then I move my fingers to her forehead. There. That’s all I can do for now.

I step away, and I thought I was being pretty clandestine about it, but she stirs, and I freeze.

“Are you leaving, Junhong?” She asks me. She sounds so drowsy. I turn around and nod.

“I am. I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says, looking at me through half-closed eyes. “It’s okay … you should sleep, too. Thank you.” And then she closes her eyes again, drifting off into sleep, and I wonder if she had said all that in her dream, and if she had even felt my fingers grace her skin.

-----

The receptionist at the desk is used to me visit. Every time she sees me come through the doors, she greets me with a grin and says, “Visiting again?” and I always nod, and she always tells me not to work too hard. I think she knows that I come for secondary motives, but she won’t ever tell me that.

I know my way around the first floor of the hospital. I greet the doctors, who recognize me easily, and I climb the stairs to get where I need to go. I like taking the stairs. It gives me time to think.

I open the door to the hospital room, but she isn’t there. The boy is sleeping as always, and I idly stand in the doorway for a minute, staring at him. He looks peaceful. The bandages are off his face, and I can see that he’s a good-looking guy. It’s weird, but … he looks happy. I think that’s a smile on his face. I wonder what he’s dreaming about.

I close the door and take a walk around the hospital. I don’t know where she is, but I won’t go looking for her. I’ll find her eventually. I tour the building, going to places I haven’t been before. I pass patients being pushed along in their wheel chairs, and I give them the biggest smile I can muster, in hopes that their day will be just a little bit brighter because they met a random, smiling stranger like me. If I were a patient dealing with a terminal illness, I’d enjoy having someone I didn’t know give me a passing smile. I think that’s very amusing.

After about thirty minutes, I make my way back to the hospital room. I hope she’s there by now. I want to tell her about how I’ve made friends with the medical staff. I think she’d find it entertaining.

I turn a corner and almost bump right into her. I reach out to steady her, but she doesn’t seem to be paying attention, and she almost doesn’t notice I’m holding her until I lightly shake her and ask, “Are you okay?”

“What?” She asks, snapping back to reality. She blinks a few times before her face brightens. That smile … that’s a different smile. I’ve never seen it before. “I was just looking for you. I just came from the room, and the doctors, they said – “

“ – What? – “

“He’s awake,” she breathes out. She smiles again. I don’t know why, but for the first time, seeing her smile makes me sad. “He’s finally awake.”