She grabs my hand and pulls me to the hospital room, excited to have me meet her friend. I don’t think she’s even aware that her hand is holding mine, and it makes me sad that she doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on something else, on her friend who has finally awoken from his coma, and I don’t blame her. I guess I’m being selfish right now. But I just wish she’d realize that she’s holding my hand, and what sort of effect she has on me.

She pushes open the door, and I swear that room has never felt more electric than it did at that moment. Maybe it’s because the patient who had been slumbering for so long had finally woken up and livened the room with his presence. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s awake – sitting, speaking, smiling - doing things that he hadn’t done in so, so long. She lets go of my hand when she sees him, and if I’m not mistaken, his gaze lingers on me as she throws her arms wide and encircles him in her embrace. I watch, feeling disconnected, as the nurse at the bedside politely tells her to please don’t compromise the patient’s state immediately after comatose, but she just keeps on hugging him like he’s never been hugged in his life. I watch his face as he slowly pries her fingers off of him, as he looks down at her with a warm, sweet smile, and I discover, at that moment, that he’s in love with her.

“You should listen to the nurse,” he says, the laughter in his throat bubbling from deep within his chest. His voice breaks and croaks after not having used it for so long, but it has a rich quality that even I can feel in my bones. I suppose it’s the type of voice girls often describe as ‘hot’. “What if you helped in making me worse?” He teases.

It turns out that’s not the right thing to say to her, because she pulls back immediately. I can tell what she’s thinking – how she blames herself for being the reason that he got hurt in the first place– and he seems to notice this, too, because he just brings her back to his chest and her hair, telling her he’s sorry, telling her that she’s okay, telling her that he’s glad to see her. Such simple, simple words, but it makes her smile again, and I just stand, and watch, and listen.

Remembering me, she steps back and waves for me to come over. I hesitate, but I walk forward anyway. She introduces me to her best friend, who nods at me kindly, but there is a look in his eyes that I’m sure is his way of gauging me. Then he smiles, and that assumption is gone in an instant, and he sticks his hand out. I stare at it numbly, not recognizing it for what it is.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he’s saying. I slowly reach my hand out, and he grabs hold of it and shakes it with more energy than I had given him credit.

“Nice … to meet you, too,” I say, letting my hand drop from the handshake. My fingers tingle. His hand is surprisingly cold. I’m not sure why, but it creeps me out.

“Do you go to her school?” He asks me earnestly. I nod my head that yes, I do, and he smiles. “You know her well, then,” he easily assumes. She glances at me, but I make no move to deny his presumption. If it looks that way to him – if it looks like we’ve gotten closer – then I’m not going to compromise that.

“I think so,” I say sincerely, and he laughs quietly, like that’s the best thing he’s heard anyone say since he’s woken up. Not her. Not her sweet smile and her kind words, but me, this guy he doesn’t even know. It makes me mad, for some reason. “I’ll leave,” I say, making a move to turn around, but she reaches out and grabs my arm, her fingers pulling at the fabric of my sleeve. I pause at her touch and meet those puzzled, pleading eyes, and I have no other choice but to stay. I do notice, however, that her friend is staring at her hand, at that beautiful hand that touches my arm, and he doesn’t look away until she finally lets go of me. He smiles at me then, a secretive, dark smile that confuses me. I don’t understand whether I should smile back or feel threatened, so I just focus on the hemming of the bed sheets in an attempt to save myself from visibly reacting.

“He can go,” he says suddenly, his voice hard, gritty. Her eyes widen in surprise, and he pays no heed to her shock. It just makes me more and more irritated, so I turn around again, really intending to leave this time.

“Wait, Junhong,” she calls to me, but I shake my head in a manner that I hope doesn’t expose me.

“Talk to him,” I say, looking over my shoulder to give her a sincere smile. She looks so lost right then, and all I want to do is touch her, hold her, but I can’t do that, not when her friend is beside her, protecting her with just the presence of his active life. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, and she seems to understand, because she nods and doesn’t protest. I had half hoped she’d beg me to stay, but maybe I’m just delusional.

I exit the hospital room, closing the door shut behind me. I lean against the door and briefly close my eyes, forcing myself not to overthink the situation. Why is it so hard to stop thinking? I wish there was a switch in our minds that we could turn off and on according to our wills. Confused with your thoughts? Switch off. Avoiding worries? Switch off. Ignoring emotions? Switch off, off, off.

I take a deep breath, the air entering my body like a cold wind, and for a moment I can’t breathe, can’t register what’s happening. And then the feeling is gone, and my lungs expand, and I feel all right, okay, but really, I’m not. I’m not. I guess this is jealousy.

And I hate that. That feeling is so … ugly. I hate feeling jealous. It’s not like I have a right to be. From the very beginning, he had her first. He has her now. And I was there, a pause, a comma in that life. I was there. And now, I feel like I’m no longer needed.

Maybe I have an inferiority complex. Then again, don’t most people?

Sighing to myself, I walk down the halls, unaware of my surroundings. I don’t notice the faces of the medical staff as they rush by me, and I don’t wave at the patients who have gotten used to seeing me. I just walk, because walking feels right, because I can walk without having to think about it, and right now I want to do something, anything, that doesn’t require additional thought.

I am outside, and the wind has gotten chipper. I berate myself for not having brought a scarf or a thicker jacket and duck my head, braving the chilly gusts as I take one step forward, and another. People brush by me, people with problems of their own, people who are completely unaware of mine. It makes me feel safe, being lost in this common ‘pandemonium’. Like I’m not the only one dealing with petty things. Other people are, too; I can hear tidbits of conversation about who has to pay for the groceries, about which color looks best with this color, or even about what to eat for dinner. I hear all this, and I don’t know why, but it makes me feel safe. I can mix my thoughts with theirs; mingle them together until I don’t know where my mind starts and where the public’s does. For seconds, for minutes, we are connected in a universal bond of unspoken understanding.

And, for those brief minutes, I feel content.

-----

Everywhere I go in the school halls, I hear people talking about her. “Her friend is awake!” They say in awe. “He’s finally okay,” they confide in each other. Everywhere. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. No matter where I go, I can’t escape the topic. I’ve never felt more claustrophobic in my life.

I can’t talk to her. I can’t reach her. It’s just like how it was in the beginning, only different. She’s closer, but distant. I have her trust, but I don’t have her attention. I see her in class, at the cafeteria, but she is never alone, not like she had been. Her circle of friends badger her, and I don’t know whether they are asking about his welfare because they are genuinely concerned, or because they simply want to hear some news. I don’t know.

I guess I’m being selfish. I shouldn’t be, I really shouldn’t, because she was never ‘mine’ in the first place. It’s just that … to be honest, I had forgotten that he would ever wake up. I’d think it in my mind, sure, that he should just wake up already and make her feel better. But I never thought about what I’d do when that happened, and here I am now, in this situation I hadn’t considered. And I don’t know what to do.

I absolutely hate not knowing what to do.

She talks to me often in school, though. She didn’t do that before. Usually, she would only openly converse with me at the hospital, and when she saw me at school, she would just give me a warm smile and a wave that would make my day. A small gesture, a tiny acknowledgement, but it was there, and it made me happy, however simple that sounds.

But now, she talks to me, goes out of her way to say hello to me in between classes, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or sad. It’s confusing, it really is. It’s nice that she’s talking to me more frequently, and I admit, it’s gratifying to speak to her in public. But I also feel like she’s forcing herself to do this, like she feels obliged for some reason, and I don’t know what motive could possibly be prodding her to do that.

I don’t want her to force herself to talk to me. I don’t want that. That wouldn’t be her, then, wouldn’t it? I’d be talking to someone else. Not her. But someone I don’t know very well.

Maybe I should get to know that ‘her’.

-----

I feel horrible. And not in a sick way. I don’t mean that I’m feeling horrible because I’m sick. And I don’t mean to say something cheesy like ‘my heart is sick’. I just feel horrible. Horrible, because I’m just really messed up. I mean. She’s smiling more and more and more, and I don’t know if she did that before, back when I was the reason, but I’m noticing it now, and it frustrates me. I probably am not even making sense. Buthe’s the reason she’s smiling, isn’t he? Is it bad that I wish it were me? Is that bad?

I feel horrible. I really hate myself sometimes.

-----

I didn’t go to the hospital today. I just realized this, but that’s the first time I didn’t go to the hospital since I started visiting her. I wonder if that just makes me an even worse person. If people knew I went for the companion of the patient rather than the patient himself, would they think I was horrible, too? I wonder. But I don’t have the guts to ask anyone.

I feel kind of bad, though, for not going. This morning, she came up to my desk and said, “I’ll see you later!” That means she was expecting me to show up at the hospital, and she’s probably there now, waiting for me, waiting for a me that won’t come. I’d say I was sorry, but only a part of me is sorry. The rest of me is just glad to have disappointed her a little. It’s weird. People don’t naturally like to disappoint other people. We please the public as much as we can. But for some reason, I get a slight satisfaction from knowing that I didn’t live up to her expectations. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m feeling rebellious. Or maybe it’s because I know that if I do this, I will take up some prevalent space in her mind, more space than if I were there in front of her.

I guess that really does make me a horrible person.

-----

It turns out my resolve is really weak, because only one day has passed since I visited the hospital, and something is pulling me to go see her. I’m bringing a flower with me this time. I guess it’s my way of apologizing for not being there like she thought I would be.

This flower is different, though. I didn’t find it on some random road. I bought it! It is a very unique flower, because it’s not a real flower at all. You see, I returned to the chocolate store where I bought her the truffles, and they had this new item there. ‘Chocolate Rose’ it said. So I bought one.

It’s really pretty. I don’t know how to describe it to you. It looks like a rose in full bloom, and the ‘petals’ glisten with chocolate shine. It’s in a square box with a window on the top, so you can look down and see it. I’m doing a really bad job of portraying the rose. But it really is pretty. You just have to believe me on that.

Anyway, it might have been a bad idea for me to walk to the hospital with a box of chocolate in my hand, because it’s hot today. I fear it might melt, so I walk briskly, making sure to take the cooler roads. That means that I have to go out of my way to take the longer route, but I don’t mind. I’d rather take forever to reach her than to reach her with melted chocolate on my hands. That doesn’t make for a very good apology, does it?

I’m finally at the hospital now, and the cool air greets me. I set the box on the counter of the receptionist’s desk just so I can check the state of the chocolate, and the receptionist doesn’t mind at all. She looks up from the newspaper she is reading and asks, “That for the patient?”

I freeze. I almost forgot that she thinks I keep coming because of a patient. It makes me feel guilty, but I nod anyway, because I don’t really know what to say. “It’s pretty,” she says, and I nod again and leave, because I can’t risk having to reply.

The chocolate is okay. It didn’t melt. I make my way to the hospital room, stopping in front of the closed door that blocks me from her. I reach out, turn the knob, and push the door open. She’s sitting in her chair, reading a book out loud to her friend. She doesn’t notice me right away, but that’s fine with me, because I am content to watch her like that. She looks peaceful, intently reading a book as her friend lies down next to her, hanging on every word she says. And when I mean ‘hanging’, I really mean it. I think he’s not even listening to the story. You can tell by the way he looks at her that nothing matters but her at that moment. You can tell. He’s completely enamored by the tone of her voice, by her expressions as she animatedly reads. It’s sweet, it really is, but seeing that look on his face unsettles me.

I clear my throat in what I hope isn’t a rude manner, and they both look up to acknowledge me. She sets aside the book and walks forward to hug me, and while I cherish the feeling of those arms around my neck, my eyes focus on her friend as he watches us embrace. It’s like I’m wired to look at him every time she touches me, and I don’t like it. I’m not intentionally trying to challenge him. But I just can’t help it. My eyes won’t listen to me.

She lets go, staggering a little, and looks down at the box that she had almost crushed. “What’s that?” She asks.

“It’s for you,” I say, and offer her the gift. She carefully takes it from my hands and peers through the little plastic window, awed at the sight of that chocolate rose.

“It’s so pretty,” she whispers. “I can’t eat this. It’s too pretty.” And for a moment, it is just me and her in that room, staring at a chocolate rose that is frozen in time. But then she turns, the box in her hand, and says, “Look what Junhong brought! Chocolate! Is this from the same place as last time?” She asks me.

“Yeah,” I reply, and she rests the box on the table.

“Just like the ones you had when you woke up,” she tells her friend, grinning. “Remember those? Junhong brought those for you.”

I observe his face as a glimmer of surprise enters his eyes, but he hides it quickly. “Thank you,” he calls to me. He’s smiling. Why does he have to smile? It’s so hard to dislike someone who treats you nicely.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, because that’s all there is to say.

“Do you know he’s been visiting you?” She tells him excitedly. “All the time. Since he found out you were sick. He’s been visiting you.”

“Really,” he comments, his uninterested response making me feel even more guilty.

“All the time,” she clarifies, as if she hadn’t gotten that point through already. “I’m really glad you’re awake now. You guys can finally meet each other. You know, he does the same things you did. Remember when you were ten and you brought me home flowers you picked from the side of the road?”

The discovery that I had not been the first to do that in her life strikes me, and it just makes me angry. I know that’s unfair. I know that’s selfish. I can’t expect to always be her first. But I wanted that side of her, because I think a part of me knew … a part of me knew that I wouldn’t ever be her last.

“I’m gonna go,” I say, breaking their conversation.

“You just got here,” she protests.

“Yeah. I have … somewhere … some things to do. Lots of homework.” Well. That’s not a complete lie.

“Okay,” she replies, furrowing her brows. “You sure you don’t want to listen … to me read? We’re reading a really good book!” She lights up, inviting me with those beautiful eyes.

“No,” I say, feeling a horrible notion wrench my heart. “I’m sorry. Maybe next time. I’ll see you guys,” I say, giving her a wave and the guy a nod. Before they can make me stay any longer, I turn around and exit, closing the door firmly behind me.

I just couldn’t stand it anymore. The guilt was strangling me. After calming myself as much as I could after that situation, I promptly leave the hospital.

-----

It’s been a week since I last visited her at the hospital. I haven’t seen her in the halls, either, mainly because I haven’t been making an effort to. The guilt is ripping me apart. I can feel it tearing my morals, and I’ve never felt weaker in my life.

I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

-----

She came up to me after school today. She’s never really done that before, and the fact that she did it made me very, very happy. She had the most bewildered expression on her face, and I could tell she wanted to tell me something, but she didn’t want to say it in such a public area. So, knowing what she wanted, I ask, “Do you want to go somewhere?”

She smiles gratefully at me, that beautiful smile that’s been making more and more appearances. “Are you free?”

“I’m free right now,” I answer.

It’s strange. She’s right in front of me, in physical form, a person who has made my dreams into reality, but I still miss her. I wonder if he thinks about her that way. That even while she’s in his presence, he still misses her. Like having her there isn’t enough. Because that’s what I feel. Just seeing her isn’t enough. I want to hold her, I want to touch her, and I want her to speak to me until I can feel her words course through my veins and shiver through my bones. I want her to be so close to me that I don’t even know what ‘me’ is anymore.

“Can we walk to the park?” She asks. I nod, even though I remember checking the weather earlier today and finding out that there’s a chance of rain. I look up at the clouds and see that the gray is beginning to burden its weight. Please. Just a little bit longer. Don’t rain.

We walk side by side, her shadow angling with mine, her steps matching my own. I feel in sync at this moment. It feels like I could walk forever, and I wouldn’t feel tired or uncomfortable at all. It feels like I could do anything and not feel anything.

She talks to me about little things at first, like how she got a bad grade on her latest test, or how she really wishes the cafeteria offered more food choices. But after a while she touches on the subject I’m sure she’s been meaning to tell me, her voice taking a hesitant lilt that I find very pleasant. She’s flustered, and unsure of her words, displaying a side of herself that I’m not used to but am very much amused by.

“You haven’t visited, lately,” she says, searching my face, making me feel like I’m the only guy who could ever exist in her life. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Now it is.” I look away, afraid that she might learn my feelings from the light of my eyes. “How is your … friend?”

She blushes, a reaction I hadn’t expected. She turns bright red. She’s never done that in front of me before, and I feel that jolt of envy again. Disappointment shades my mind, but I try to be patient as she takes deep breaths, evidently trying to gather the courage to talk.

“He … you know, he … he confessed to me. Yesterday.” She gulps nervously, playing with the straps of her bag. “I … I don’t know what to do, I …” she ducks her head, smiling to herself in disbelief.

I’m so confused. Usually, I’d be happy as long as she smiled. But seeing her smile like that because of another guy just makes me sad.

“Do you like him?” I ask quietly.

“I … that’s the thing. I’m not … sure,” she confesses. “You know, I wonder sometimes … ever since he’s woken up, I’ve been really confused with things lately. And I wonder. Do I like him? Or am I pitying him? That’s just … horrible, you know?” She shakes her head. It surprises me. It never occurred to me that she might think herself as a horrible human being, too.

“What will you say?” I question as her arm brushes against mine. My skin tingles. I ignore it and focus on the topic.

“I think … I’ll say yes,” she tells me. She lets go of her bag’s straps. “That’s … what he wants, right?”

“Is that whatyou want?” I whisper. She meets my gaze, and for a moment, I can see right into her heart, and what I see hurts me more than I had ever thought it would.

“Yes,” she replies firmly. “That’s what I want.”

I don’t know what’s happening to me. My hand moves on its own. I find that I’m cupping the side of her face, and that she’s leaning against my palm, her eyes half-closed as she stares at me. Her cheek is so soft. And I don’t know what I’m doing. But I don’t really care. I just don’t ever want to let her go.

“Junhong … “ she gently pushes my hand away, and with carefully constructed words, asks, “Do you like me?”

She says it so simply. It’s a yes or no question. There’s nothing rhetoric about it. And while I know I should answer the way she wants me to – by saying either yes, or no – I reply in a way that’s unnatural of me. Forgetting the way my heart beats in warning, I lean in and place my lips on her forehead, much like I had that night so long ago. It only lasts for a second, probably even less, but a current of emotion passes between us that makes me pull back in utter regret.

“I’m sorry,” she hums softly, hoping that she didn’t hurt me.

I just smile as politely as I can, because I fear that if I speak, I might break.

-----

I don’t think she really likes him. I know I shouldn’t judge. But I think she only accepted his confession because he just woke up from a coma. When you worry about someone, and they suddenly get better, you’d do anything to make them stay that way, right? And I think that’s how she feels.

I don’t blame her. I’d probably do the same thing.

-----

I’m going to the hospital today. I enter the room and find that she’s not in her usual spot. I don’t know why – she’s usually at the hospital – but I don’t question it. I didn’t really come here for her, anyway.

He is lying on the bed, his eyes closed, a serene smile on his lips, but I know he’s awake. I know, because he moves a bit when I walk in, and when I sit down on that chair and it creaks against my weight, he says, “Hello,” and “Long time no see.”

“Hi,” I say as his eyes open. He’s looking better and better every day. Wires are connected to the back of his hand, but despite these restrictions, he manages a wave.

“How are you?”

“I should be asking you that,” I chuckle. He smiles, making me forget, for just a little bit, that he’s hurt.

“Did you come here because of her?” He asks, getting immediately to the point. I look down at my hands, rememorizing the lines on my palm. “You like her, don’t you?”

I just smile, and he nods, understanding. “So do you,” I say, and he grins.

“I do.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe what he is about to say. “I never thought it would happen. But we’re dating now. I’m just … really glad. You know? I liked her for years, and she never really noticed me in that way until recently.”

I know how that feels.

“And I got into this car accident, and I was just so pissed, you know? That day … she probably told you about this. I was going to see her … because I was going to confess to her.” He smiles at the distant memory. “But I guess I didn’t need to be in such a hurry, because, look, she’s dating me now. And it was worth it, breaking a few bones and all.”

It was worth it, he says. To get hurt. I believe him.

“I don’t think she’d want you to be in a coma again, though,” I point out, and he laughs a bit at this, the bandages around his head stretching to accommodate his movements.

“No. She wouldn’t.” He quiets down and stares at me. I stop looking at my hands and raise my head to see his eyes glow with an incomparably iridescent light. “I’m glad, you know? That she accepted my confession, even though I’m like … this. But I feel like … I feel like because of her, I’ll get better.” He closes his eyes briefly. “You know, the doctors … they told me this morning. My condition is unstable. And they don’t know how I’m gonna turn out. But … “ his voice lessens as he sighs resignedly. “I’m okay, I think. If I were to die. Right now. I’m just glad I finally have her.” He grins, and I can tell how hard it is for him to make that smile, but he does it anyway, trying to assure me that he really is okay. “Listen … I want to say thanks. For being with her … when I wasn’t.”

“You’re welcome,” I murmur, because I can’t think of anything else to say, because that’s all I need to say. He just nods and looks away, and I feel irreplaceable at that second. Maybe that’s a weird way to describe it. But that’s how I feel. And I think I’m okay, actually, that he has her instead of me. I like him. He’s a nice guy.

-----

It’s 1am. I have been woken up by a very difficult call. I didn’t want to answer it. I still wish I hadn’t. But I can’t rewind time. And right now, the ability to rewind time is a power I would very much like to possess.

She called me. She called me, and I could barely make out what she said because she was crying so hard, and she was ripping my heart apart with her sobs. How I wish she were near me so I could hold her, but she wasn’t, so I just lay in my bed, trying to comfort her in the best way possible despite the distance that separated us. I tried to make out what she was saying, but it was so hard, and then she yelled it out defiantly, stating the message so clearly, so flatly, that I swear the night stopped.

“He’s dead.”

That’s all I could make out. I don’t ask why. I don’t ask how. I don’t say I’m sorry. I just hold the phone against my ear, listening to her as she cries herself to sleep, listening to her as I try to organize all these feelings tossing and turning and colliding in my tired head.

I get the feeling she won’t be smiling a lot anymore.

-----

I don’t see her all day during school, but I know how badly she’s doing from the snippets of conversation I catch as I walk to and from classes. “Her best friend died,” they say. “She lost her boyfriend.” They sympathize, they empathize, but they don’t really know anything. They only know what she’s choosing to show them, and even then, she isn’t showing them much. She’s just … breaking. She’s breaking. And I want to be there to hold her so she won’t, but she’s avoiding me, I think. I think she believes that if she sees me, she’ll cry again, and she doesn’t want to do that.

So I wait after school. I wait for her, I wait until the majority of my classmates leave, I wait until the sun loses its color. I wait for her to leave the building, and I walk beside her, and we don’t talk. We don’t say a word. We just walk together, pretending on the outside that everything is fine, letting our insides eat us up. But then she starts weeping again. It’s a quiet kind of crying, the kind when the shoulders shake a little, the kind when the sobs come it in hoarse rasps. I think that’s the worst kind of crying. It feels like your soul is being shredded to unfixable pieces.

She stops walking, and I stop with her, and I reach out and hold her against me, because it just feels like the right thing to do. I don’t care that her tears are soaking the front of my shirt, or that we are in the middle of the sidewalk. She doesn’t care about it, either, or maybe she’s simply forgotten where she is.

“He’s dead,” she whispers into my chest. I can feel her words against my skin; feel the way her body shudders when she says them. She raises her voice, proclaiming it, louder this time. “He’s dead.” And then she forms a fist around my shirt, seething in anger and desperation. “He’s dead!” She shouts, looking up into my eyes.

I hate seeing her like that. I hate seeing those tears fall down her cheeks. I hate seeing those bleak eyes stare back at me. I hate it. I hate it.

Just smile, dang it. Just smile.

I want to tell her it’s going to be okay. But I’d be lying if I said that. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if anything really will be okay in the end. No matter how hard I think about the future, I won’t ever be able to predict what will happen.

“Junhong,” she manages to say in between her sobs. She releases her grip on me and just cups my face in her hands. There’s nothing romantic about the gesture, but my heart can’t help but flare at the feeling of her hands on my face. She searches my eyes, pleading, imploring me, to do the very thing I had resolved not to do. “Can you do something? Can you tell me everything is okay? Can you lie to me? Please. Please. Just tell me something good.”

And I do. I do, because I hate seeing her cry, and because it’s what she wants. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. It sounds empty. It sounds lost. But I’ve said it, and I can’t take it back. It seems to be enough for her. She sighs, and for a minute, her tears stop, and she just stands there, staring up at me as she holds my face in her hands, her fingers cold and unfeeling.

“Thank you,” she says, and I know she means it.

-----

He’s gone. He’s gone, but she’ll always be his. Even when she forgets all about him, even when she grows farther from this situation, she’ll still be his. I can’t ever date her. I can’t do that. Not to her. Not to him. And not to myself.

I can never have her.

-----

I went to his funeral today. It was a simple service. It was the first time I met his parents. The location was beautiful, and his coffin was decorated with very beautiful flowers. I walked forward to place my own contribution on top of his resting place. I stared at the picture they’ve placed on the table, a picture of him without his bandages. He is holding a trophy of some kind. In his other hand is a medal. He is smiling.

I set my gift of a rose-shaped chocolate on the table and return to my seat.

-----

It’s been six months since his death. People don’t talk about it anymore. I suppose the knowledge of sorrow only lasts for so long. The teachers no longer go out of their way to say they are sorry for something that wasn’t their fault, nor do the counselors try to encourage their students to attend therapy sessions. Time passes. People lose grasp of things. The importance of matters fades from everyone’s minds.

Everyone, that is, except for hers.

We still talk about it sometimes. Not often. But sometimes. She’ll share the memories she experienced with him with a wistful smile on her lips and a sad look in her eyes. And I’ll share what I can, share what I learned and what I remember. She’ll talk about the embarrassing things he did as a child, or how his love of chocolate took a toll on his paycheck. Things like that. Happy things. Things that would distract us from getting too sentimental.

It’s not the same as it was before, and I don’t think that time will come for a long while yet. It’s only been a few months since he left. But I think we’re getting better. We’re young; we’re learning. We’re growing.

Honestly, I’m just happy she’s smiling. It was difficult at first to have to see her sorrowful eyes every day, to have to hold her every time she felt the need to cry. It was hard. It was one of the hardest experiences of my life.

I still wonder, sometimes, if she’d ever think about liking me that way after she’s forgotten about him, but I think that’s too much to ask. Guilt can be a prison, and she’s locked herself in. It is not my responsibility to bring her out.

I’m okay, I guess. There’s still time. But I’m okay. You know, I’m glad. I really am.

She’s smiling. Not as much as she used to, but she’s smiling. That’s enough for me. Just seeing her smile makes me happy. And even though she cries sometimes, and wishes she could change the past, and hopes that she had been there for the last minutes of his life, she still smiles. That beautiful, wonderful, God-given smile that looks both everlastingly lovely and mournfully devastating.

And that’s how I know everything will be okay.