𝐖𝐇𝐘? ━━ 𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗟 𝗛𝗜𝗧 | ✓

07

❝ BUT STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES ALWAYS TASTE LIKE ! ❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ♡︎♡︎♡︎

A WHOLE MONTH has passed ever since the incident, everything was back to normal— except, you were yet to open your eyes again. You were still in the same hospital bed since the day you were admitted, as limp as a corpse yet alive.

It was simply an accident on how I knew of your condition, I was even denying the information that had registered in my brain at first, going as far as pushing past the doctor and nurses that crowded around your bed and seeing everything for myself.

They were right— you were in a coma.

Your doctor wasn't sure if you were ever going to wake up from your horrid slumber, even the man in the black suit that visited you every other day ever since didn't want to admit that he had lost hope in you.

But I didn't. I kept praying, begging the skies, hoping, and wishing to every star that you were going to be okay soon. You're an incredibly resilient person, you're bound to wake up from this stupid coma sooner or later, right?

Right?

Good God, I miss your voice already. I miss hearing it just for you to call me so suddenly, to tell me to do something for you, or to just simply say something out of pocket. I miss your blunt answers to any of my question. I miss your beautiful [e/c] eyes that always looked at others in distaste yet held a significant softness towards me. I miss the warmth from your hand that always grabbed my wrist or my arm as you dragged me somewhere.

Fuck, I just miss you so much even if you're just here, laying on this stupid bed with your cold and unmoving body. I hated hearing your heart monitor every time I visited your room, but I had to endure it, my long visits in your hospital room were the only thing keeping me sane.

In the first week that I began visiting you, I planned on staying past the visiting hours— I would even bring the little music box you bought for me when we went to the carnival three months ago— but the guards would always catch me and force me to go back home. My father stop reprimanding me everytime I did that, practically locking me inside the little study room every night and only letting me out once the sun has risen.

Then on the second week, I still stayed past the visiting hours but this time the guards and nurses didn't bother doing anything since I'd always do it the next day, shooing me away was useless. I'd always watch the nurses change your I.V. packet or whatever it was called, and they'll always tell me to call them immediately if ever I see you move, if your eyes open, or if you even lift a finger.

By the time the third week came my father didn't bother stopping me from staying overnight in the hospital anymore, he would sometimes drop by whenever he can and scold me for not coming home— yet whenever he sees me so unmoving to whatever he was saying, he'd stop and just leave.

The man in the black suit didn't stop visiting you but his visits have become short over the course of three weeks. He would whisper things to you before kissing the ring on your finger, then he'd leave afterwards. Everytime he'd drop by I always just gave him a nod as a sign of polite greeting and he'd do the same as well. I figured that he was Japanese since that's the language he always whispers to you in.

But why does he keep whispering to you even if you weren't going to answer him anyway? Well, I did the same thing for you but that's because I wanted to share the memories I have of my daily life with you, whether you were listening or not.

I also wondered why you still wore the big, chunky ring, I hadn't seen you taken it off when you were still awake nor have I seen the nurses or doctors take it off of you either. Perhaps I should just ask you that when you finally wake up.

This day marks the fourth week since you had been in a coma, and as always, the Japanese man had dropped by again and did what he always does— but instead of leaving immediately afterwards, he gave me a small book and said nothing.

Dreading Love by Furihata Tenko

The book was already translated in Korean. I recognized the other to be the one that also wrote the other book I dearly loved and always told you about, you even borrowed it and read it, then you returned the book after a week.

I hadn't read this one yet but I've heard from multiple people that this book had given them a new perspective of love and the responsibilities that come with falling in love. Just by hearing those things, I felt a bit anxious in reading it.

But you— or the Japanese man, I mean— had given the book to me, anything you give to me is important. And so I opened the front page with nimble fingers, preparing myself to read whatever holds within the pages.

But alas, there was a short note stuck on the back of the cover, I immediately recognized your handwriting— it was neat and you always wrote in cursive.

Only read this book once you're in high school or else I'm throwing you off a building if you disobey me.

I couldn't help but laugh at what you wrote on the little green sticky note, there was even a drawing of an angry face on the corner of it. From the penmanship and down to the drawing, it was all you. And I both hated it and loved it. It made me miss you even more.

Once I closed the book again, I sat beside your bed and took your hand in mine, intertwining our fingers like how you always did. As carefully as I can, I pressed a long kiss on the back of your hand, letting my tears fall down my cheeks once again.

You were cold. Your hands were cold against mine— yet I still held it and gave you warmth. As childish as it might sound, I hoped that everytime I whispered things to you, held your hand, and stayed by your side, it was enough to encourage you to wake up again.

"I love you." I had whispered for the hundredth time today, and I'll continue to do so until you wake up.

I'll always stay by your side, loving you with a weeping heart and a bruised soul, even if you wouldn't do the same for me.

I will love you, I had loved you, and I will continue to love you— even if you're not with me anymore.