The first night, I woke up when I felt a hand my face. And when I turned and didn’t see anybody there, that swept all thoughts of sleep from my mind.

The thing is, I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t have been. The touch lingered, and I could still slightly feel it now. It was the kind of touch every girl wants to feel once in her lifetime, and every guy wants to be able to do successfully to the girl he loves. If that was from a dream, I would be spending a lot more time sleeping than trying to stay awake.

Another thing, I don’t dream. I never did. Never in my life have I woke up and remembered my dreams.

So, that first night, I didn’t sleep because of sheer terror. You can’t expect to sleep if your body stiffens up and refuses to relax on account of the fact that something might pop out at you under your bed or from the insides of your closet.

The second night, as soon as I turned off the lights and got comfortable in my bed, I felt the hand my cheek again. I hadn’t even fallen asleep yet. I bolted up, and once more, there was no one in my room.

The thing is, I wasn’t scared. The touch, albeit missing a person to connect it with, was the best thing I have ever had in my life. Forget the most delicious food, the most savory smells, one of this ghost hand on my face was magical. It fulfilled me, completed me in every aspect.

I called out to it, and received no response. I wasn’t surprised, but why was my heart hurting so much?

So, that second night, I didn’t sleep because of the tears flooding my bed. You can’t expect to sleep when you’re drowning in sorrow.

The third night, I was sure it would be there. I was ready, and when I felt the touch of the ethereal matter on my face, I grabbed where I thought the arm should be, and begged him.

“Please don’t. You can’t expect me to live my life when you’re not there. To expect that would be torture, please.” I saw a hand. The fingers were elongated from what seemed to be years of piano, or other instrument playing, and gentle. So gentle that I knew without a doubt that this was its hand. No other hand could have a touch so sweet, yet so cold.

I gasped out of sheer joy, and clutched at the hand in vain. It was gone already. Too soon, I thought, and my heart seemed to agree.

So, that third night, I didn’t sleep because of my head torn between being happy or sad. You can’t expect to sleep when every ounce of you is churning and confused, wondering what emotion to convey.

The fourth night, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept for what seemed like an eternity, and still, the hand’s touch excited me to no end. It gave me strength. What gave me even more was the fact that it wasn’t that anymore. It had turned into a “he,” and I could finally see his face. It was beautiful.

As soon as he got close, I wept. Not for terror, or sorrow, or simply because I was frustrated, but it was because of the absolute beauty that was Zhang Yixing. I don’t know how I knew his name, but it couldn’t have been anything else. Nothing else could do justice to the marvel that stood in front of me. I wanted no more.

With my body wrapped in his arms, I felt as content as I could ever have been. It was wonderful.

So, that fourth night, I slept.

When I woke, it was a blindingly white room. His face was the only thing I could find comfort in, my solace in an unfamiliar universe.

And when he smiled at me, with plain relief and gratitude on his face, I couldn’t help but wonder at it. Why was he so happy with me? And the words from his lips hurt in a way I thought they never would.

“Oh my angel, you’ve finally woken up. I thought the coma wouldn’t ever pull away from its clutches.”

And that night, I didn’t sleep because I wanted to go back to a world where I had finally been happy. You can’t expect to sleep knowing you are being selfish, leaving behind one who loves you, but wanting it nonetheless.

I slept anyways, and for the first time, I dreamed. Of Yixing with his hand, and I was content.