My God...

You accepted a job to take care of a boy who had suffered a very serious accident, leaving him disabled and bedridden, with a wheelchair as the only way to get around. You had been told that the young man only had four months to live.

Thanks to this, the young man was very depressed and had no desire to open up to others. He had to breathe through a machine and to hear he had to use a device that connected from his ears to his brain.

Right now you were standing in the doorway of the boy's room. You had been told that his name was Phillipe, but you lacked any other personal information about the young man. The only thing you could know was his appearance: He had black, silky hair but it was disheveled and messy. His blue, still eyes, staring at the ceiling of his room, made him look dead. His pale skin showed signs of not having received the necessary amount of sun in all the time that had passed.

He was still on his bed, with a blanket covering him below his chest, and his hands were on the blanket, resting together on his stomach. Every time he breathed a sound of pumping air came from the machine. You had been told that he could speak and move his head, hands and arms, but that his legs had been completely disabled. That was why you were offered the job of helping him with his daily routine and, in part, to cheer him up, since he knew how little time he had left.