60 seconds

60

I clutch at the smooth white cushion embedded on the chair, which sinks ever so lightly under my weight. Designed to be comfortable, it isn't – precisely due to that reason. Generally, everything in the hospital is so pure, white and soothing that it hurts to look at. But that's just another reason to hate them. Hospitals, whilst they can be the stages for comedies, they are more often than not the theaters for tragedies. 

On that thought, I happen to be the deuteragonist of one. Sam is the protagonist. And the tragedy is reaching its end. I press down the slim cushion of the chair to stop myself from crying again. That feeling of pressing on something to the point of almost breaking it... It's just like on that day.

High school drama club. Christmas play. One thousand five hundred and twenty eight black eyes; all set on me. Only trying to open my mouth to say my line made my body shake like jelly. My hand reached out to something – anything – to stop the trembling, something to hold on to. And I found another hand. Sam's hand. I probably didn't notice at the time, but it was shaking too. So we just grasped each others hands until the scene was over.

Sure, it was a strange thing for strangers to do. God's, strangers. Just thinking of us as strangers makes me laugh. Thing is, we were. In fact, just as we stepped into the backstage, we simultaneously started giggling.

"Umm... Thanks, I guess." Sam had said after we calmed down a little.

"Thanks to you too,-" I started answering, only then dawning on the fact that I didn't even know this stranger's name.

Sam seemed to have reached the same thought, and quickly completed, "Sam. I'm Sam. And you are?"

"Alex. Nice to meet you." I smiled quite giddily.

We shook hands – the same ones we had just been clutching on – and continued with our next scenes respectively. Once the audience clapped for the last time, and all of us actors exited the stage, Sam reached out to me. It's always Sam: more social, easygoing and friendly than me, since the very beginning.  

"You did well back then," Sam had said, "In the last scene, and in the monologue." 

"You really think so? But it was horrible! I was literally tripping over every sentence!" I'd replied " You on the other hand, you've made an awesome protagonist. You had the most lines, yet you never hesitated on one."

"Just you bet! It was a divine miracle that I got the part, least of all performed it well." Sam fought back the compliment.

I guess we couldn't blame each other – it's always happened since then. Sam would never admit a compliment, no matter how much I insist, and I still don't understand what Sam sees in me. I guess now it's too late. Good things never last. Miracles don't exist. Life is tough. I'm learning it all the hard way.

I force myself to breathe deeply and relax, and I reach out to Sam's hand, just like on that day. The difference is that now it lacks the strength to tug back at mine. It mortifies me just how pale it has become, and I swallow hard once more. I have to be strong – for Sam.