Ends when complete.
The June wind brushes against my uniform sleeves,
as if trying to take me somewhere far away.
On my way home after school,
I stop, as always, in front of the hospital.
Through the glass, I see the young man,
sitting by the window, reading a book.
He looks to be in his early twenties.
So quiet he could almost dissolve
into the white of the hospital room,
and yet, only his page-turning fingers
seem more alive than anyone else.
The first time I saw him was by chance.
I was leaving after visiting my grandmother,
and he was coughing on a bench in the hallway.
I just handed him a bottle of water
from the vending machine.
That was all it was supposed to be,
and yet he smiled
as if I had given him something precious.
“Thank you. Your uniform looks like summer light.”
I never knew someone could say something like that
with a straight face.
In that moment, something warm flickered
deep inside my chest.
I understood right away that he was ill.
But I never asked what kind of illness it was.
I felt that if I did,
something would quietly come to an end.
All I do is walk past the hospital after school.
All he does is sit by the window with his book,
and when he notices me,
he smiles just a little.
That’s all we are to each other,
and yet on days he isn’t there,
the air feels thinner.
“You have a future ahead of you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
He says that,
and still, on days when I’m feeling down,
he notices it right away,
even through the glass.
Kindness is sometimes the most cruel thing of all.
Today again, I stop in front of the hospital.
The June wind is fresh and gentle,
but somewhere in my chest,
there is a faint bitterness.
The sound of him turning a page
somehow makes my own heart tremble.
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