The hospital room was quiet, except for the soft beeping of machines and the distant hum of evening rain tapping against the window. Arisol sat beside Yuki, her fingers gently tracing the edge of his blanket. He looked so small now. His skin was pale, lips dry, but his eyes still found her—always did. “You’re still here,” he whispered. His voice was barely a breath. Arisol nodded, holding back the storm in her chest. “Of course I’m here.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I wrote you something. It’s short.” He gave the smallest smile, and that was all the permission she needed. She read slowly, her voice soft and cracking: “If the world forgets your name, I’ll whisper it into the wind. If the sky turns black, I’ll paint it blue for you. Even when you’re gone, I’ll still write to you. Don’t forget me, Yuki. Because I’ll never forget you.” Yuki’s eyes stayed on her as she finished, and for a long moment, they didn’t say anything. Then he reached up, gently taking her hand with the last of his strength. “Thank you,” he said. “For every word… and for giving me something beautiful to leave with.” A long breath left his body. One more blink. And then—nothing. No sound, no movement. The machines didn’t scream. They just fell silent, like the room itself was holding its breath. Arisol didn’t cry. Not at first. She leaned forward, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I’ll keep writing.” But later, when she was alone, the sobs came like waves. That night, she wrote his name fifty times in her notebook, until her hands shook. And then she wrote nothing for months.
