Leon could probably climb the moon and shout at the top of his lungs, so loud that his ligaments would burst, that in the eternity of galaxies there is no one more beautiful than you. Leon could probably compete with time itself to go back in time and write your name in every verse of the poets.

"Get well." But all that comes out of his lips, dry and cracked from the cold, is just that.

He opens his nostrils and inhales the smell of sweet strawberry tea and bitter cough syrup. The bag falls rustling onto the nightstand, the paper pill wrapper crunching in his hands as he mumbles something endlessly boring under his breath.

You just smile happily, not really listening. "Okay." You whisper—your voice is desperately hoarse, but there's nothing you can do about it. So you just stare at the bluish sky outside the window, frowning at the bright snow that reflects the sun.