Everyone is watching us.

“Floor 2, Room D23.”

It’s been 18 weeks since the incident. Since you left me here alone. Every sonorous step through the marble floors of the ward only remind me further of that terrible fact.

Every time I step into that clinical white, that scent of death- all I wonder is how could you, the light in my life, be here?

They’ve put you in a room that faces South, meaning the sun hits the skin of your almond-shaped face, and nothing else could look more idyllic. Even in near-death, you’re beautiful. I’m not poetic, my Seung-Ho. My words fail in my calculating mind, nothing but my chemicals and numbers that operate. There’s an engine au lieu de my heart.

A recurrent blare of noise radiates from your heart monitor. I can’t help but wonder if we have synced my machine to your heart, my Seung-Ho.

The hour is small by the time I visited today, about 19:20PM, with the shadows beginning to mimic that of towers and skyscrapers on your face. When I looked to my right, it’s simply just how the cards have been arranged on the window sill. There sits only four cards; one from your grandmother, one from Da-eun and two from the school. I'm tempted to scrunch the last two up. I want to shred them, rip them apart for what it's worth, which is very little.

The difference between the first two cards to these pathetic excuses for a condolence is striking- the school didn't even bother to use a pen, to write it out. No, it's typed out, ordered from a website and stuck on like it's a custom hat you buy for a coworker. The message is clear: this was just an obligation.

Message aside, I suppose I can't criticise it right now. I haven't bought you cards nor gifts nor come with loved ones to ponder over the good times over tea. Does the time I give you make up for that? When I speak to you about my day, or when I tell you about what we should do after school, do you hear how my words crackle like a dying spitfire? You, my match to the melted wax of my soul, have been smothered in cruel water.

The chair beside you is beginning to remember me, before having creaked beneath a new weight and now it only ticks before settling into the floor to show it's readiness to uphold me and my sorrow.

Here you are, my friend. Friend. Did that suit us? Could it ever suit us? The ache in my hands tell me no, as I reach over and I feel the way your skin has attempted to heal the rips on your knuckles. There's still warmth. That's just how blood works, says my mechanical thoughts. I know you would tell me otherwise.

I look up to your face, as if wanting to hear you say it. Say that I'm not just of wires and metallic walls. Tell me again how you found a light in me. My smile, my eyes- tell me again how they show my golden soul, and I will never doubt you again. I promise.

Seung-Ho. Humour me, please? Shine that smile back on me. I miss your eyes.

When I don't hear that baritone melody, I look up. Not to you, not just to the ceiling, but to the hope that God is watching.

Lord, you foul, illogical being. You divine thief.

Oh god, please. For once in my life, let me get what I want.

I slip off my shoes and my jacket. As usual, you always are positioned slightly more to the left, ergo I have the ability to do what I would have never done when you were awake and I shuffle onto the right side of the bed. Laying beside you has become a necessity in keeping me afloat from drowning. Your physical warmth is as close as I will get to your real radiance. I miss your words and your gaze, Seung-Ho.

My hands come to your face, not foolish enough to lull your head towards me to risk any actual medical complications, but instead I keep them still on your cheeks. It's as if you are frozen in time, a capsule of when life was good enough to throw out the need for tolerance and replaced it with fervor.

Your hair has gotten longer too, I noticed. Usually, it cuts just to above your brow, giving such an unfavourable cut a charm that could only be characterised by Seung-Ho. It's now resting below it, and I have to stroke it out of your face to see how your eyelids guard your eyes. I'm jealous of them, I wish I could replace their role to protect you. I should have from the beginning.

If I had, you would not have stood in the way and taken the hits for me. Kids are cruel, and we both knew that first hand.

"You and Seung-Ho. What's going on between you two?"

"The air between those guys are suspicious. Don't tell me you think it's…"

It's laughable. They were wrong, whatever they thought it was between us. Love, romantic or platonic. They were wrong. It wouldn't be enough of a concept to say so. If only I had that mindset back then.

I remember the look on your face when they cornered us that day. Enigmatic smirks and accusations. Had I broken your heart when I denied them? Would it have changed anything? No, of course it would have. In comatose, at least you would know my love for you is shameless in it's truest form.

I entangle our legs together as best as possible, I hold you close and I breathe in your scent that remains unwavering to the hospital miasmas. Humour me again, won't you?

All of me burns for you to return to me. I am at your every whim, every call. I'm ready now, I promise. Seung-Ho, my gorgeous boy, I've never needed anything more. I hope my molten tears scald you, I hope they burn and sizzle in your perfect skin. Feel the way I burrow into pretty crook of your neck and scrunch at the issued uniform of every patient here. Exhaust me again and again as you always do, invigorate me with your summer sun. My summer sun, show me you're here.

My eyes begin to droop. If I do sleep, will I see you there? Please, don't let nurse doesn't come in. I hope your grandmother doesn't come in. I hope our friends, Da-eun, the school… I don't want them to come in. I don't want them to see I fell asleep on my comatose lover, dried stains of melancholy and ballads still leaving my monotonous throat.

My gorgeous boy, I'm sorry. My beautiful boy, I'm sorry.