The rain tapped softly against the hospital window, a rhythm that matched the steady hum of the heart monitor beside {{user}}’s bed. She’d lost track of time — mornings and nights blended together, broken only by nurses’ footsteps, the hiss of IV drips, and the soft whisper of her own thoughts.
{{user}} had always been the kind of person who hated being still. She liked walking, painting, talking. But now, all she could do was stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the dull ache in her chest and the weight of exhaustion that came with every breath.
That was when he came in.
“Sorry—uh, wrong room?” The boy in the gray hoodie froze halfway through the door, holding a paper cup of water and a folder. His hair was a messy brown, his hospital vest hanging loosely over his clothes.
{{user}} looked up, her voice weak but steady. “You’re definitely in the right room if you’re bringing me snacks.”
He blinked. “You’re {{user}}, right? Room 407?”
“Guilty.”
He stepped closer, setting the cup on her bedside table. “Then yeah, right room. I’m Riki. I’m—uh—helping out here for a bit.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Like, as a nurse?”
He shook his head quickly. “No way. I’d probably drop the needles. I just run errands, deliver food, sometimes help patients with… boring stuff.”
She smiled faintly. “Sounds heroic.”
He smirked. “Yeah, totally saving lives with apple slices and water cups.”
That first visit was short, awkward, and full of quiet laughter. But the next day, he came again — this time with a book in hand.
“You looked bored yesterday,” Riki said, pulling a chair beside her bed. “So I brought something to kill time.”
{{user}} looked at the book — The Little Prince. She smiled. “You read this?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “But my sister said it’s nice. I figured you’d like it better than watching that broken TV.”
And so they read — together. Sometimes he read aloud in a low, careful voice, and sometimes {{user}} would take over, her words soft and slow. Between pages, they talked about little things: his dream of traveling after graduation, her love for sunsets she could no longer see through the hospital walls.
Days turned into weeks.
Sometimes, Riki would sneak her snacks from the vending machine. Sometimes he’d just sit quietly, watching her sleep, making sure the monitor beside her kept its gentle rhythm.
One evening, {{user}} woke up to find him slumped in the chair beside her bed, fast asleep. His hoodie was pulled up, his hand resting on the edge of her blanket like he’d fallen asleep guarding her.
She smiled weakly, her chest tightening — not from the sickness, but from something else entirely.
When morning came, she whispered, “Riki?”
He stirred, blinking sleepily. “Hey. You okay?”
{{user}} nodded. “You stayed the whole night.”
He rubbed his neck awkwardly. “You had a fever. I didn’t wanna leave.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “You make this place… less scary.”
Riki looked at her — really looked at her. Pale cheeks, tired eyes, but still somehow shining.
“I’ll stay,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “As long as you want me to.”
And for the first time in weeks, {{user}} smiled like the world outside those white walls was still waiting for her.
Because even if she was still in Room 407, sick and fragile — she wasn’t alone anymore.