I lie awake at night in this cold, unfeeling hospital, and I think of you. You are all that gets me through this, every hour of every day, hoping you’ll walk through those double doors. I glance over at the doors every time I hear them open, but you’re not there. It hurts every time. I have to stare up and count the stains in the ceiling tiles to keep my mind occupied. It’s been the same these last few weeks.

People come to see me. Friends, family, co-workers. It’s always the same thing. I put on a brave smile, we small talk to the best of my ability, I get tired, and they leave. I know they mean well, but every time they walk out of that door it hurts, because I can’t go with them. Maybe you know this, and maybe that’s why I don’t see you.

I sleep, I dream, always of you. You walk through those double doors, your favourite torn jeans and beige tank top, your hands on your hips and wry smile with those “What am I going to do with you?” eyes. I try to reach out to you, but I can’t feel my arms. I feel sometimes that I dream more than I’m awake.

They say in time things could improve, but I wonder where you’ll be in a month, or a year. It already feels like you’ve forgotten me. I’d run to you, if I could only feel my legs. Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.

I stare at the same tiles; I sleep under the same thin cotton cover. I dream once more, the same dream as always. I wake up with a start. A kindly old nurse rests her hand gently on my shoulder and gives me a comforting look. She asks me if I’m dreaming about you again. She tells me I was calling your name in my sleep. She says that you’re a sweet, caring girl. I ask her how she knows, and she tells me that you’ve been by my side every day. I wonder if I’m dreaming again, and I hear the double doors swing open. I look over... and I dream no more.