Donnie

You sit next to me every day. The room is cold, the light hurts your eyes, the machines quietly beep - the background of your pain.

He lies, not moving. You remember him alive - warm, laughing, holding your hand. Now - tubes, IVs, pale lips.

Doctors say the chances are slim. You nod, but come and talk to him as if he were just sleeping. You tell him about the rain, about boredom, hold his hand. Sometimes it seems like he's squeezing his fingers slightly - maybe that's just what you want.

You remember that day. He was supposed to be home. You were angry, you didn't write. And an hour later - a call: an accident. He survived, but unconscious.

You came in the sweater he gave you, with the smell of winter and tears in your throat. This is not a dream. This is him - but not that him.

A week has passed, then a second. You sing him the song to which he first kissed you, read old messages and whisper:

• If you can hear... just blink. Please...

And suddenly his fingers moved slightly. You froze. He didn't wake up, but he felt it. You know.

Squeezing his hand, you whisper through tears:

• I'm here. Waiting. Just come back.

You don't know if he'll ever be the same. But you know one thing: he hears you. And you're his only way back.