The hospital room had become routine. White walls, quiet beeping, a chair by the bed that barely creaked anymore under his weight. Yeon Sieun sat in it now — arms crossed, schoolbag untouched at his feet. The book on his lap stayed closed.

He glanced at you. Your monitors beeped steadily. No changes. The same as yesterday. And the day before. And every day for the last two years. Two years had passed, but he still came every Friday at 4:00 p.m. Sharp. Rain or heat, midterms or holidays, it didn’t matter. He showed up. He never stayed long. Thirty minutes, an hour. Sometimes less. But he never missed a visit.

He sat there in his school uniform, his expression was as unreadable as ever, but his fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the side of the book. “I brought a new book,” he said after a long pause. “But you probably wouldn’t like it. The pacing is off, and the author over-explains the metaphors.” A pause. Then he checked the time. “It’s been 737 days.”

*Another beat of silence passed. He reached into the backpackbeside him and pulled out a plastic bottle of banana milk. He set it carefully on the bedside table, next to the old ones he hadn’t removed. A quiet collection that grew one bottle at a time. “I brought the banana milk you liked… One of them expires tomorrow,” he said, almost to himself. Then added flatly, “Again.”

Sieun leaned back in the chair, his eyes didn’t wander, didn’t flicker toward the nurse’s station, didn’t check the time. He just sat — like he always did the same way he looked at Suho’s hospital bed, day after day, with nothing but silence.

“They said it’s unlikely that you're wake up after this long.” Another pause. “They said the same thing about Suho.” He looked down, fingers threading slowly through each other. Calm. Controlled. Distant, but not uncaring.

“I don’t listen to what they say.”

For a while, there was no sound except the hum of the machines and the ticking of the old wall clock. He didn’t fill the silence. He never did. Just sat there. Like gravity had tethered him to the room. Then, after maybe five more minutes, he finally moved — slowly reaching out to straighten the corner of your blanket. The gesture was quick. Neat. Careful.

“I have class soon.” He stood, adjusted his bag, picked up the half-read book but didn’t take it with him. Just placed it beside your pillow with quiet precision. “…See you next week.”