The electronic beeping from the machine I stand next to makes me shake in fear.
I'm not familiar with this emotion.
Someone I love is in pain.
And I can't do anything about it.
He's stuck in the white bed; unlike the strong man I once knew.
He can't do anything for himself anymore.
What must he be feeling right now?
Does he know what happens next?
How much longer can he stay strong?
But his sense of humor's still there.
He points to the window and smiles.
At least he's got a view.
When I look out it, I see the never-ending city and the bold sunset.
Nothing new.
But still he appreciates it.
It could be worse.
He's optimistic.
It's better that he doesn't see the tears everyone cries in the waiting room.
It's better he thinks we're the strong ones.
I snap out of my thoughts with the ventilator hissing out air.
I decide that I hate hospitals.
They're so cold.
Lifeless.
And I want to give him every sort of comfort I can.
Because I couldn't imagine staying here all the time.
I would give up.
But not him.
He's strong.
And at least he has a view.
