I come to sit by your hospital bed. I usually come late, to give your parents a chance to spend some time with you. They come here every day, too. Your mum brings chocolates every so often. One night, I contemplated eating them. I didn’t even think of it because I was hungry, or bored. I had this ludicrous idea that I could make everyone think you’d woken up, eaten the chocolates, and gone back to sleep. Definitely wouldn’t be any talk of pulling the plug then.

I remembered the hospital is monitoring you twentyfour-seven and they’d be the first to know whether or not you woke up. So I chuckled, right there, by myself. I started explaining why I was laughing. Sometimes, when I talk to your face like that, I almost kid myself you’re hearing me. That you’ll come back and remind me of everything I said.

There are so many things I want to tell you. Oh, I saw a really funny meme today. I was listening to a gorgeous song while I walked through the park. You would have loved it. I want to tell you what it’s like to go to work, now. See that new girl at your desk. Her name’s Jemima. There’s nothing wrong with her. But I’d still like you to meet her. I'd ask you what you thought, and you’d roll your eyes or whisper in my ear about that thing she does with the gum on the end of her pencil.

I want to tell you about that time I got home late, hoping to finish off the Chinese food, only to realise the last time I ordered Chinese food was weeks ago. There was mould growing inside. I sat on the toilet afterwards, wishing you’d been there. You probably would have yelled at me, and then burst into a fit of giggles. The other day, I caught myself missing the way you cry. Can you believe that? I teased you so much about the way you cry at everything. Told you to woman up.

I’d like to talk to you about what it’s like to talk to all of your extended family. A lot of them had never met me. I freaked out to your dad that the next time I see them might be at a funeral. He took it really well, your dad. Put his arm around my shoulder. Then, and this is how I know you’re biologically related, he started to cry.

You know, when you first had that car crash, I was so incredibly furious. Livid with rage. I thought how dare you, you stupid blind driver. How dare you make me go through this? Making me meet your extended family, eat Chinese food, forget about leftovers, sit on a toilet bawling, criticise a co-worker without you? Life without having you to talk to sucks. People say you should never date someone you work with. Because when they let you down, you never escape their presence.

Well. Your absence is heard, loud and clear. But before you get any ideas, I’m not moving on. So you better wake up, just so I can tell you to never drive again, complain about Jemima, worry about upsetting your dad.

Please, come back, okay? I’ll come to sit by your hospital bed every night until you do.

When I finally got to the hospital, they kept bombarding me with fancy words that I don’t know the meaning of. I only caught on to possible brain damage and medically induced coma. What the hell happened? I left him out of my sight for two hours and he gets himself in a coma?!

The nurse walking by jumps at my hysterical chuckling. She seems to question whether to comfort me before deciding against it and going on her merry way. Isn’t she lucky? She gets to turn a blind eye to my pain while I’m forced to bask in it.

I hate this. I hate him for doing this to himself. If only he’d have been more careful. No. That’s not what I’m upset about. I’m upset that he made me fall in love with him. And now, like a fool, I am hopelessly devoted to this shell of a man.

Is he even human anymore? Does he still count? They don’t even know if his brain works right anymore. If he wakes up- When he wakes up- If he wakes up... will he even remember me? Will he remember our time together? Will he look at my face and recognize what he sees? I don’t think I’d be able to cope with being forgotten.

“Mr. Schmidt?”

I look up from the cracked tile I had my focus on. The doctor holds her clipboard tightly in the crook of her elbow. She looks tired, more so than me. This must be relatively routine for her. I wonder how she does it; opening people’s bodies all day, telling their loved ones that they might not make it, being the only thing standing between life and death for her patients. It must be a lot of pressure.

“Ye-” I clear my throat. “Yes?”

I stand from the uncomfortable hospital waiting room chair and wring my hands together. When I first got here, it felt like everyone and everything was coming at me all at once. But then, as soon as they were done with their quick relays of information, they just left me to sit in this woefully depressing waiting room and pray to a god I don’t believe in that my boyfriend will be okay. They just... left me.

The doctor waves her hand. “He’s ready to take visitors. But not for long, probably twenty minutes to the max because he’s going to need another surgery, we’re just prepping the room. Just try to talk to him, it will probably help with any anxiety you have about his current condition. Talking to a loved one is the most calming thing you can do right now.”

I just nod and follow her to his little room.

It’s so dreary. So lifeless. I never thought I’d see him this way. He’s always been the big one. The strong one. The one I could lean on whenever I was having a tough time. And now look at him.

His muscles are wrapped in bandages. His face is obscured by tubes. I can hear him struggling with every breath. He’s fighting so hard to stay alive. I choke down the tears, allowing only two or three escape.

I scuffle over next to his bed and hover over his hand. Should I take it? He’s looks so fragile, I’m scared to take it. He’s got his hair in his face. That’s nothing unusual, he never brushed it. I should move it out of his face, shouldn’t I? I should make him as comfortable he can be, right? I should talk to him like the doctor said. But I... I don’t think I could handle not hearing his response. Talking to your boyfriend shouldn’t be the same as talking to a brick wall.

Distantly, I hear the doctors squabbling outside the room. They must be arguing about taking him. I can hear the female doctor say “Just give him some of the time we promised him, he’s been waiting for hours.” and the male doctor says ”Well, I hope you’re ready to take responsibility if he dies on that operating table.”

Dies. dies. dies. dies. dies. dies. dies. Derek, my boyfriend. The love of my life. Dies. Dead. Gone forever. I can’t- That can’t happen. I’d fall apart.

″Take him!” I plead. “Take him, operate. Do whatever it is you need to do. Just don’t let him d- Don’t let him- D-don’t- I can’t.”

It’s getting harder and harder for me to breathe. As the nurses roll him away, they give me little forms of consolation. A shoulder rub here, a sad look there. A furrowed eyebrow laced with pity.

And now they’re gone. And I’m left here, in this wretched little room, all alone. The lights flicker on and off. The bustling outside just fades away into static. Everything around me is empty. Without color. Without light. Just a whole bunch of nothing.

“Oh, Derek. Oh, you idiot. You idiot, I love you so fucking much.” The tears fall freely now, I hold my head in my hands and sink onto the floor. There’s nothing left for me to hold onto, now. All I can do is fall. And wait. Wait to either be caught or... to crash.