“Your favorite person’s back,” Satoru sang into the frigid room, plagued by beeping and the airy, faux breathing of your machinery. His eyebrow creased ever so slightly at the sight of you lying in a hospital bed, unmoving, still, like you were caught in a bubble in which time had stopped completely. The only thing that reassured him was the steady rise and fall of your chest, the healthy beeping of the monitor.

“Hey, you,” he murmured, moving a bit of hair out of your face, placing the bouquet of your favorites on the table beside you. “I got your favorite flowers. And another card to add to your growing collection. You’re pretty popular, huh?”

Satoru was just talking now, about anything. The doctors gave him the vague hope that the accident would probably affect you cognitively, but at the very least you’d be alive. All he could really do was let you know he was there, that he wasn’t leaving.