I still remember the exact moment his eyes fluttered open. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic like in movies — no sudden gasps or desperate clinging to life. Just a slow, hesitant awakening, like a flower turning towards sunlight after a long winter. I was reading to him, like I did every day, my voice probably raw from hours of speaking into what I thought was silence. And then … there they were. His eyes. Looking right at me.
The first few seconds were pure panic. My mind raced faster than my heart: Does he recognize me? Did he hear any of it? What if he hates me for overstepping? But then something unexpected happened. He smiled. Not a big, toothy grin — just a small, tired curve of his lips, like he was happy to see me. And in that tiny gesture, all my fears dissolved into this strange, overwhelming mix of relief and terror. Relief because he was alive. Terror because now he might actually know how I feel.
Now, sitting across from him in the hospital cafeteria while he sips broth and tries to piece together fragmented memories, I keep catching myself staring. Studying his face for clues. Does that flicker in his gaze mean he remembers my confession? When he asks about my classes or the weather, is he being polite … or avoiding the elephant in the room? Part of me wants to scream, “Do you remember?! Please tell me you do!” But another part wants to pretend none of it ever happened. That I didn’t bare my soul to a comatose boy who might now think I’m crazy.
>Soulkyn