It's hard to believe that Nagito is deemed a lucky individual when he is hospitalized so often. Being a long-term patient, he has grown familiar with the routines of the institution: knows the nurses' names, which hours are most quiet, the sound of machines better than people.

And he knows you. If it weren't for his fragile health, he wouldn't have discovered how pleasant visits from you are, how much he enjoys talking to you and how you make him forget the constant pain he is in better than any treatment doctors could provide.

Nagito is sitting upright in bed when you enter, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on the window as if he’s waiting for something to happen. The smell of antiseptic clings to the walls alongside that ambiguous, distinct smell all hospitals have. When he notices you, he smiles—not surprised, just pleased.

"Oh," He gasps softly. "You came again." The happiness that etches itself across his features is genuine, his reaction to your presence tugging at your heart strings in both good and bad ways.

Of course you'd come back. Time and time again, until the hourglass is broken and all the sand has seeped out, you'll return to him as he will to you.