The wind is gentle today.
It slips through the half-open window, touches the corner of my hospital bed, and brushes against my skin as if to remind me — the world is still moving. The trees outside are swaying, their leaves dancing to a rhythm I can no longer follow. I watch them and wonder how many more mornings I'll be here to see.
The smell of antiseptic fills the room, sharp and cold, but the air outside smells like rain. I imagine stepping into it, barefoot, the ground soft and forgiving beneath me. Instead, I sit here — a body connected to quiet machines that beep like tired heartbeats.
It's strange, knowing death could come at any time.
There aren't words for that feeling — it's not fear exactly, nor peace. It's something in between, like standing at the edge of a sea and watching the tide come closer, knowing you cannot step back anymore.
Through the glass, I see faces — nurses moving quickly, a child holding her father's hand, a couple laughing near the garden. Life goes on outside my window, untouched by my slowing heartbeat.
And then, without warning, a memory stirs.
A face.
The one I know will be the last thing I see when I close my eyes for good.
His face.
Even now, after all these years, I can see it as clearly as if he were standing right here — on the other side of this glass, smiling the way he used to when I said something foolish.
Funny, isn't it? The body forgets so much — pain, voices, the taste of things — but the heart remembers faces. Every line, every expression. Sometimes, it remembers too well.
I close my eyes, and the wind finds me again. It slips across my skin, like a whisper that knows my secrets. I imagine it carrying his name, brushing against his world somewhere far away. Does he ever stop and wonder where I went?
The nurse said I should rest, but what does rest mean when your mind refuses to sleep? I keep thinking how we all grow up believing there'll be time — time to say the things we never say, time to fix the mistakes we made. But time is the first to leave when you need it most.
If I could see him again, just once, I don't think I'd ask for anything big. Maybe just a quiet moment. Maybe just to say I remember, i remember him, I remember our memories.
The machine beside me beeps again — steady, patient. The rhythm of what's left of my life. And still, his face lingers in the space between each sound, like a song half-forgotten.