Chigiri’s leg hurt. His knee hurt. He was more wobbling, than walking, down the hallway of the cold hospital, towards your room. He scanned the doors, looking for the number 121 written on one of them.

His parents had wanted to accompany him up the elevator, because they could see just how difficult walking was for him. But he’d insisted on going alone, knowing you would feel more comfortable with only him being there.

There it was. 121, stylized into a plaque that was stuck to one of the doors. Your room. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

He had anticipated many things. In fact, when he’d heard of your accident at your most recent ballet performance, he’d been alarmed. It had happened only a week after he’d torn his ACL, and he couldn’t help but think you were both cursed, having to give up on both your dreams due to your injuries.

When he entered, Chigiri spotted you lying on the hospital bed. Except for the cast around your leg, you didn’t look too bad physically. But it startled him just how dejected you appeared. He approached you carefully, the way one would a wounded and cornered animal.

“Hey,” he patted your shoulder, stooping down to your level even though it sent a sharp stab of pain through his leg, “How are you doing?”