The White Room of the Hospital

Lying in this white hospital room makes me feel sick.
I have a heart condition. I’ve been in and out of hospitals so often that I’ve barely attended school. I’m tired of being here. But what else can I do? There’s nothing I can change.
That day, as I stared again at the boring white ceiling, the door to my room suddenly opened.
A small boy walked in.
I thought he was lost, so I asked, “Are you lost?”
He just looked at me and pulled out a drawing from his hands. A small smile appeared on his face.
“My name is Arata Shinomiya,” he said. I was still confused about why he was here.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“My mom works at this hospital. I like walking around and showing my drawings to the patients,” he answered cheerfully.
“You really like drawing, huh?”
“Yeah! I love it. I want to be a professional artist.”
I nodded. “That’s a great dream.”
Arata looked at me for a moment and said, “You look really sad... Do you not like being sick?”
I couldn’t answer right away. His question was too honest. Too direct. But strangely... it didn’t hurt.
I turned my face toward the window. Outside, the sky was blue and bright, yet everything still felt gloomy through hospital glass.
Then he left my room—and came back carrying paper and drawing tools.
“Let’s draw together!”
I turned slowly. Arata was already sitting in the chair beside my bed. He opened his colored pencil box and laid a sheet of paper on the small table usually used for meals.
I struggled to sit up and leaned against the pillow. “I’m not very good at drawing,” I said.
“That’s okay! As long as it’s fun,” he replied brightly, without hesitation. He was far too bright for this colorless room.
Hesitantly, I took the pencil he offered. We started drawing. Arata drew a park scene with cherry blossom trees and a smiling sun. I could only sketch a blurry little house on a hill.
“Is that your house?” Arata asked as he peeked at my paper.
I nodded. “My dream house. Somewhere quiet. Far from the hospital. Far from the sound of monitors.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he reached for my drawing and added a big tree next to the house. “Then I’ll live nearby too. So you won’t be alone.”
I smiled faintly. For the first time in days, my chest didn’t feel as heavy—not because of the illness, but because something inside me felt warm.
“Thank you, Arata,” I murmured.
He looked at me and smiled brightly. “Let’s draw again tomorrow!”
“Yes. I’ll wait for you.”
From that day on, Arata visited me every day. We played and drew together. Sometimes, I helped him with his homework. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way.
The days that used to feel long and dull began to change. Every morning, I looked forward to the sound of small footsteps at my door, hoping it was Arata. And almost always, it was.
“I brought a new drawing today!” he said one morning, showing me a picture of the sun surrounded by sunflowers. “It’s really bright, so you can be bright too!”
I smiled, looking at his drawing. The colors were vivid, the lines imperfect—but somehow, they always felt warm. Just like him.
Sometimes, he talked about school—about the naughty kids, about the teacher who scolded him for drawing during class. But Arata kept drawing. He said it made him happy and he wanted to share that happiness with others.
“Do you have a dream?” he asked one afternoon.
His question made me pause. I hadn’t thought about things like that in a long time.
“I don’t know,” I answered softly. “I used to want to be a writer. But now... I barely write.”
I looked down for a moment, then into his cheerful eyes.
“But thanks to you... I have one hope now. I want to get better. So we can keep playing together.”
Arata went quiet, then smiled wide like always. “When you’re better, let’s play in the park! I know one with a big swing and a little pond. You’ll love it!”
I nodded. The pain in my chest was still there—but somehow, it felt a little lighter.
The days kept passing.
Sometimes it rained, sometimes the sun shone. But inside this white room, everything started to feel colorful. Arata’s drawings now covered the wall beside my bed. He drew my dream house, my favorite flowers, even my smiling face—though I wasn’t sure it really looked like me.
One night, when everything was quiet, I woke up. The machine beside my bed beeped softly, as usual. But something felt different. I no longer felt alone. No longer felt empty.
Little Arata may have been just an ordinary boy. But to me, he was color in a lifeless room. Hope in the middle of pain. And... the first friend who made me feel alive.
With trembling hands, I reached into the drawer for my small notebook. For the first time in a long while, I wrote something down:
> Today, I felt happy.