[6]

It was one of those days when everything felt like it was slipping away—my energy, my hope, my breath. The ceiling tiles blurred in and out of focus as I lay on my hospital bed, watching the slow rotation of the fan above. It was a hypnotic rhythm, as steady and predictable as the beep of the machines next to me. I was tired, but not just physically. It was the kind of tired that felt like it was sinking into my bones, like every minute was dragging me down further, pulling me away from the surface of life.

I’ve been here for almost a year now. My body had adjusted to the dim lights, the faint scent of antiseptic, the muffled voices of nurses outside my room. But my mind still wandered, still fought against the walls that held me in. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep fighting. Some days, I wondered if I even wanted to.

I shifted in bed. The uninvited twinge of discomfort all over my body had become my daily companion. I didn’t mind the pain so much anymore; it was the numbness that scared me. The feeling that life was happening somewhere far away, and I was just watching it from behind a glass window.

My eyes fell on the table beside me, with all the messy remnants of the past year. A sketchbook, a few pencils, tubes of paint that Carter had insisted on leaving, though I hadn’t touched them in weeks.

A month has passed after that day. Carter didn’t come to the hospital, and I wondered if I had upset him somehow—maybe pushed too hard with the answers. I tried to paint on my own, but my mind wouldn’t let me focus. My thoughts were restless, swirling around what had been left unsaid.

Then, just as I had given up hope, Carter returned.

He walked into the room like nothing had happened, his usual stride relaxed, as if he hadn’t been avoiding me for a month. His familiar bag slung over his shoulder, paint-stained jacket loose around him. The moment he saw me, he smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I tried shifting on my bed, though I couldn’t find the strength.

“Don’t get up. Lie down.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. And sorry about last the last,” he said, setting down his things. “I got caught up with some work.”

I nodded, relieved to see him. “Don’t worry. I’m just glad you’re back.”

“When is your operation. Have they given you a date?”

“Yeah, somewhere around 2 weeks later...”

“Then maybe we can keep our sessions on hold. We can continue once you recover from your operation!”

“Thanks, Carter. I’m glad that you’ve said that, but-”

“But...? Do you want to quit? It’s fine...”

“No, I’m not saying that… It’s just…” The words were caught in my throat, tangled with something deeper, something I hadn’t let myself say aloud. I took a breath, trying to steady myself. “It’s just that I don’t know how much longer I can keep painting at all.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to live much longer,” I continued, my voice quieter now, but steady. "The doctors, they always try to sugarcoat it. But I can tell it from their eyes—the operation I’m waiting for? It might not even work. I could be gone by next spring."

I heard the soft clink of Carter’s fingers brush against his chair, but he said nothing. His gaze hung between us, heavy, like he was trying to find the right words, but they were just out of reach.

“I… I didn’t know that,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

I shrugged, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “How do you even begin to say something like that? I didn’t know how to tell anyone. It’s too much. But... it feels like a weight’s been lifted now, saying it out loud. It’s strange, but it’s a relief.”

Carter didn’t respond at first, his gaze distant. He started to say something, but the words never fully formed. I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened around his paintbrush. But he stopped himself, whatever thought he had fading into silence. I smiled softly, though my chest felt tight. “You know, Carter… painting is what’s kept me alive, these past few months. You’ve kept me alive.”

Carter flinched, his eyes narrowing as though the words stung him. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean it. Before I met you, I’d lost all meaning. I didn’t see the point in anything. But then you taught me to paint. You gave me a way to bring color back into my life, to see hope again, even when everything else felt dark.” I looked at him, my heart pounding, feeling the raw honesty spill out. “And for that, I’m truly grateful.”

“Why are you saying this now, Jim?”

I didn’t reply immediately, just turned my gaze toward the window, where the afternoon light seeped through the thin hospital curtains. “Like you’d taught me, Carter. And as I continued to draw, I noticed more. How the sun rises and sets every day, waiting for none. How, even in hardship, everyone around me are still able to smile. How colorful the world is, and... how unfair... I’m really sorry… I’m sorry… for never saying these before… But I just… I just want to paint the spring flowers next year. That’s all.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say the rest.

Only if I’m still here.

Suddenly, Carter stood up, abruptly gathering his things. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as he grabbed his bag. He didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word as he slung it over his shoulder.

“Carter…?” I called, confused, but he was already halfway to the door.

Just before he left, I caught a glimpse of his eyes, the way they glistened in the light, like tears he was too scared to shed. And then, without a word, he was gone, leaving behind his painting utensils and the echos of our those unfinished words.