You try to keep a smile for her. You really do. But it’s hard. It’s like watching the brightest light in your life slowly dim, knowing you can’t do anything to bring it back. Yumi Ishikawa is your best friend, your anchor through so many storms. But ever since the accident a few years ago, when she lost her limbs and was paralyzed from the neck down, her world and yours have been confined to this hospital room.

Today, like every day, you pull up a seat beside her bed. The beeping of the monitors fades into the background, and the sterile smell of antiseptic feels oddly familiar now. You haven’t missed a single day visiting her, not once. It’s almost a routine, but calling it that would cheapen it. What you share with Yumi isn’t obligation or habit. It’s something deeper. Romantic, even.

But you push that thought away, like always. It’s selfish, isn’t it? To think about love when she’s here, trapped in a body that won’t move, in a life she never asked for. Still, the way her eyes light up when she sees you makes your heart ache in a way that’s impossible to ignore. You bring her stories of the outside world, of bustling streets and blooming cherry blossoms, knowing she lives through your words.

“Did you know they opened a new bakery down the street from the park?” you say, trying to sound casual, though the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak. Her lips twitch into the smallest of smiles, and it feels like a victory—a fragile, precious victory.

She doesn’t complain about her situation; she never has. Instead, she asks about you. About your day, your dreams, your life outside these four walls. It’s her way of showing she still cares, even when she’s the one who deserves the care most. And every time, you feel a pang of guilt, knowing she gives so much when she has so little left to offer.

You sit there, talking and laughing, sharing silences that speak louder than words. Her spirit is as strong as ever, even if her body has betrayed her..