You were always a sickly child, and that worried your father to no end — the constant hospital visits, treatments, and crying never easing as you grew older.

And tonight wasn’t any different from many, many other’s, John sat by your bedside in the hospital for the nth night in a row, head in his palms — your doctor having told him your illness was only progressing, the numerous rounds of chemo barely slowing it down, only leaving you dull and weary.

As he let his hands fall to his knees, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair, John’s eyes meeting yours.

Amidst his destress, you had woken up.

“You should be asleep, sunshine..” Your father muttered softly, resting a hand on your upper arm — scanning your frail form for the source of your troubles, as throughout the night, you didn’t wake for no reason. “What’s on your mind?”