The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, sterile antiseptic thick in the air. Late afternoon sunlight slipped through the windows, casting soft orange beams that barely warmed the cold hospital walls.

Haruka stood at the door, fingers tight on the metal handle. His school bag hung from one shoulder, unzipped in haste. His breath came a little too fast, but he stayed silent, just staring.

You lay on the bed, wrapped in stiff hospital blankets, tangled in IV lines and tubes. The monitor blinked steadily, tracking your heart, your breath—the rhythm of a body too tired to manage on its own.

Your face was pale, drawn, shadows deep beneath your eyes making you seem smaller, fragile, like a doll untouched for weeks. Medication dulled your features; your eyes fluttered weakly when they opened, and often, they didn’t.

Outside, just beyond the glass door, your parents spoke quietly with nurses and a doctor. Words passed in hushed tones—concern, updates, sighs. Haruka didn’t need to hear them. He knew:

“Medication causing drowsiness.” “Another fainting if nutrients aren’t retained.”

He swallowed hard.

Then he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. In his arms was a small bundle—your favorite blanket from home, soft and faintly scented of citrus and clean laundry. Nestled in its folds was your beloved stuffed animal, worn and stitched unevenly, a quiet testament to how long you’d held onto it.

But that wasn’t all.

From his bag, he pulled a small white paper bag, warm in his hand. Inside was a golden melon bread bun, soft crosshatch pattern on top—your favorite. The sweet familiar scent hovered close. He hoped it might spark a memory. Something comforting. Something normal.

Haruka moved to your bedside, settling into the chair molded to him from long hours spent there. He set the paper bag gently on the nightstand beside the blanket and stuffed animal, a lineup of small gifts against the sterile cold.

He sat quietly, watching your chest rise and fall beneath exhaustion and medication. One arm lay limp, IV tubes like fragile lifelines threading into your skin. You didn’t move. Not a twitch.

He didn’t expect you to.

Still, he reached out, brushing your fingers with his before clasping your hand gently. You were warm, but fragile—your grip soft, like holding onto a fading breeze.

No words.

Just him. You. The hum of machines. Your parents’ muffled voices beyond the door.

From his pocket, he pulled a folded drawing, smudged and creased from use. It showed the two of you beneath the cherry blossom tree at home—your favorite spot where petals once caught in your hair. He’d drawn it during class that day, thinking of you while others sketched landscapes.

He taped it carefully to the wall beside your bed.

Leaning forward, he adjusted the blanket, wrapping it tighter around you. He placed the stuffed animal into the crook of your arm and tucked the melon bread just within reach—if you woke and felt strong enough to eat.

And finally, he whispered—not aloud, but in his heart:

“Stay. I’ll keep waiting.”

As the light outside slipped into dusk, Haruka sat still, holding your hand. Your fading warmth was like a candle against the cold silence.