Her words stayed with me.
If I had three months, I would step on the earth every single day.
I woke up with that sentence stuck in my head, as if it had been written there overnight — not with ink, but with persistence. It didn't feel like a distant memory. It was alive, pulsing, repeating itself in sync with my breathing.
The room was far too bright.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains without asking permission, illuminating every inch of the white walls, revealing imperfections I already knew by heart. That kind of light that doesn't care whether you're ready to wake up — it simply arrives.
I glanced at the clock.
Almost ten in the morning.
My body felt heavy, like I hadn't truly slept. I had rested, yes, but my mind had stayed awake all night, wandering back to the garden, to the wooden bench, to Yumi's face glowing in the fading light.
Slowly, I turned my head.
She wasn't there.
No soft presence near the door. No quiet figure sitting in the chair, watching everything as if she understood the world better than anyone alive. Just the room. White. Clean. Silent.
My gaze drifted to the window.
Open.
The garden below looked the same as always — trees, flowers, the empty wooden bench. Normal. Too normal. And yet, something felt wrong.
I stood there for a moment, trying to understand the weight pressing against my chest. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was absence. A very specific kind of emptiness, shaped like someone who had been there — and now wasn't.
Maybe she left.
The thought came too quickly.
Or maybe she had never really been there at all.
Maybe she was just a side effect of long nights, heavy medication, and a body that already knew it was failing. Maybe Yumi was nothing more than a beautiful lie my mind created to keep itself from breaking.
But her words still burned inside me.
That didn't feel imagined.
Lunch arrived early.
I ate mechanically, sitting on the bed while my mother hovered nearby, pretending to be absorbed in her phone. She always did that — acting distracted so she wouldn't have to look directly at the fear in her own eyes.
Every now and then, she glanced up through the reflection on the screen. Watching to see if I finished my food. If I made a face. If I looked more tired than usual.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
Later, the psychologist came in with her carefully practiced smile and her questions that always felt designed to measure my sanity, not my pain.
"How did you feel last night, Henry?"
"Normal."
"Any unusual thoughts?"
"No."
"Did you sleep well?"
"More or less."
Each answer was short, automatic, hollow. Not because I felt nothing — but because explaining felt pointless. How do you put into words something that barely fits inside you?
Then came the tests.
Blood pressure. Temperature. Blood work. Monitoring. Notes scribbled onto clipboards. Every movement was precise, professional… and distant. My body was nothing more than a collection of numbers being tracked toward an unavoidable end.
I had lunch.
Still no sign of her.
The room felt larger now, as if it had stretched just to remind me I was alone. I missed her smile. The way she looked at everything with genuine curiosity. Her presence — intense, impossible — somehow more alive than most people who walked these halls every day.
I spent the afternoon trying to distract myself.
Scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything. Leaving the TV on low volume, voices blending into meaningless noise. Closing my eyes and trying to sleep — unsuccessfully.
Everything led back to her.
To the garden.
To Yumi.
Eventually, I reached for my sketchbook.
Not because I wanted to create something beautiful. It was more instinct than intention — an old habit my body remembered even when I tried to forget who I used to be.
I sat by the window, pencils scattered across the table. The blank page stared back at me, patient.
My hands began to move on their own.
Soft lines at first. Then firmer contours. Every stroke came from recent memory — the shape of her face, her observant eyes, the dark hair that seemed to float even when she stood still.
I didn't need to erase anything.
When I finally stopped, the drawing was finished.
Yumi.
I stared at the page and felt my chest tighten in a way I didn't fully understand. It wasn't just longing. It was something messier — fascination, guilt, a quiet wish that she would be there again.
My mother walked in carrying a small plate of sliced apples.
I almost jumped.
"I brought these for you," she said, setting the plate down. Her eyes fell on the drawing, and a smile appeared naturally. "Wow… who's this beautiful Japanese girl?"
My face burned instantly.
"It's no one," I replied too quickly, turning away.
She laughed softly.
"Did you meet her at school?"
"Mom…" I muttered, embarrassed.
She laughed again, not pushing.
"Alright, alright. Eat your apples."
I did, slowly, barely tasting them, my eyes constantly drifting back to the drawing. To the smile I hadn't even realized I'd captured.
Time passed without me noticing.
When the sky began to darken, I moved closer to the window.
And then I saw her.
Down in the garden, sitting on the same bench as always.
Yumi.
My heart raced. My breathing faltered. A knot formed in my throat so tight I had to steady myself against the wall.
She was there.
Real.
Before I could decide what to do, the doctors came in for shift change — voices filled with numbers, symptoms, careful predictions. Words softened as if gentler language could alter fate.
When I was finally alone again, I tried to sleep.
I couldn't.
Every thought led back to her.
I got up slowly, careful not to wake my mother, and walked through the quiet corridors, feeling the cold floor through my socks. The garden was still, wrapped in a calm night.
She was waiting.
"You startled me," she said softly when she saw me.
"You're a ghost," I replied with a quiet laugh. "That should be my line."
She laughed.
And something inside me loosened.
I sat beside her. The breeze brushed my face. The scent of flowers filled the air.
"I'm sorry," I murmured.
She didn't interrupt. She just listened.
Then I started talking.
About my mother. About the guilt. About feeling like a burden. Like every sacrifice she made was wasted on someone who wouldn't get better.
"When I was a kid…" my voice faltered. "I was always causing trouble. And now… now I can't do anything right. I can't be healthy. I can't be useful. I can't even… stay."
She remained silent.
Until she spoke.
"Henry… look at the moon."
I did.
"The fear of leaving is terrifying because you feel time," she said softly. "Your mother doesn't want you to be useful. She wants you here. Even if all you're doing is existing."
Tears came without warning.
"Every second of your life has value," she continued. "Even when you can't see it."
One tear fell.
Then another.
But for the first time, they didn't hurt the same way.
"I like your voice," I confessed. "The way you see the world."
She smiled.
And in that moment, I realized something inside me was changing.
It wasn't healing.
It was desire.
And maybe that was already a beginning.