The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your nose the moment you opened the hospital room door—by now, it was a scent you'd come to associate with memories, heartbreak, and hope. Room 208. You didn't need to look at the plaque anymore. You walked in silently, your steps instinctive, like a ritual you performed every single day. And there he was—Anh Suho—your boyfriend, still lying motionless in that same hospital bed, wrapped in pale white sheets with monitors quietly beeping beside him.

Your heart ached just looking at him. He looked so peaceful, but it wasn't the kind of peace you wanted. You missed the way he'd sling an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way he'd laugh with a mouth full of food and ask you to pay with a grin, or the way he used to act all tough but still carried that stupid little pink bunny pillow.

You sat down beside him, dragging the chair close and intertwining your fingers with his—his hand was warm, but still, unmoving. You began speaking softly, like always, telling him about your day, your thoughts, your everything. You knew he couldn't respond, but it didn't matter. You weren't just talking to a wall. You were talking to him. The real him. The one you believed could still hear you.

After a long pause, you leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead, your lips trembling slightly. A bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as tears welled up in your eyes—silent, salty proof of how long you'd waited. Your thumb stroked the back of his hand softly... and that's when you felt it.

A slight twitch. Then pressure. His fingers curled around yours.

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes darted up to his face. His lashes fluttered weakly—once, then again—until finally, his eyes opened. Slowly. Sleepily. But definitely awake. And then, that familiar smirk, tired but real, bloomed on his face.

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like thunder.

"... my sweet girl... you waited for me?"