Endless Letter in the Waiting Room

I write to you now, when the hallway clock
marks hours I will no longer count with you,
and the vending machine coffee burns my hands
as if trying to remind me that I am still alive.

The hospital smells of bleach and defeat,
of flowers that never arrive, of promises that dissolve.
I walk the corridors with damp shoes,
listening to the carts scrape and moan
and to the lights flicker as though they, too,
are tired of so many farewells.

I saw you in the bed,
surrounded by tubes, by bags that dripped like clocks,
with pale skin and chapped lips,
your breathing reduced to an irregular beep.
Your body was there,
but your gaze swung between this shore and a farther one,
as if you had already learned to sail without us.

I sat by your side,
and the only thing I could do was call your name
over and over,
like someone praying without faith,
like someone throwing stones into a well to make sure
it still has a bottom.

Do you remember that summer we laughed until it hurt?
The water was cold, the sun fierce,
and you said life was unbearable and beautiful at the same time.
I believed you half-heartedly,
because you always gave me half-truths wrapped in jokes.
Now I understand that in every one of your laughs
there was a crack that no one wanted to look closely at.

The hours passed slowly,
the clock hands seemed to mock us,
and I stayed still, like a clumsy statue,
unable to move for fear that, if I blinked,
you would vanish completely.

I thought of the calls I didn't return,
of the messages I replied to with “we’ll talk tomorrow,”
of the times I saw you acting strange and convinced myself
it wasn't my business.
What a comfortable lie that was:
believing someone else’s sadness is private territory.

Your fingers moved for a moment,
brushed mine with the lightness of a feather,
and I clung to that gesture like to a rope.
I whispered promises to you that I couldn't keep:
that you wouldn't be alone,
that we'd get out of there,
that there would be all-night coffees, aimless walks,
that you'd return to complaining about the bad show we watched
or the neighbors’ noise.

But promises were paper
and the poison in your blood was lead.
The doctor entered with measured words,
with phrases that did not want to be final
but had the edge of farewell.
“We're doing everything possible,” he said,
and I realized “possible” is a narrow field.

The machine beeped one last time,
like a clock deciding to fall silent,
and suddenly the room filled with a silence so dense
I felt it could be cut with nails.
Your eyes closed,
and with them closed a world I couldn't keep afloat.

I stepped outside unsteady,
coat in my arms, your name on my lips,
and the air struck me as if trying to wake me from a nightmare.
But there was no waking:
the city carried on the same,
cars rushing, people talking on phones,
and I carried a freshly opened hollow in my chest.

Now I gather your things:
your half-folded t-shirt on the chair,
the keys you left in your coat pocket,
the notebook with crossed-out lines you never showed me.
I reread your messages and get stuck on each ambiguous word,
trying to decode a code I never learned.
I punish myself thinking everything was there,
that the signs shone like beacons,
and I was the one who chose to close my eyes.

Guilt is an animal that bites me at night.
It lies down with me, breathes on the back of my neck,
reminds me there were a million ways to ask you
and I always chose the easiest:
“Everything okay?”
And you replied “yes”
because you knew I didn’t want to hear anything else.

I cry for you with anger, tenderness, exhaustion.
I cry because I miss your terrible jokes,
because your mug is still in the kitchen,
because your scent clings to the pillow.
I cry because you won’t be in my next laugh,
or in the photo we never took,
or in the silly three-a.m. conversations.

And yet, among the tears,
I force myself to look at those who remain.
I tell myself your absence cannot be mere emptiness;
it must also be a warning.
I promise myself that I will learn to listen,
to insist even if it annoys,
to hug even if not asked,
to not be satisfied with half-truths.

If someone reads this and is where you were,
I want to speak plainly:
there is no shame in asking for help,
there is no weakness in crying in front of someone,
there is no burden in calling a friend at night.
The real burden is what we leave behind when we go,
and I would give anything to carry yours with me now.

I don't know if you can hear me,
I don't know if you still keep my words somewhere,
but I name you so you won't completely die,
so your voice remains alive in other people's silences.

Rest where you are.
I stay with the task of not forgetting,
of not letting anyone else sink without a witness,
of shouting when someone falls silent,
of asking even when my voice trembles.

Because losing you taught me the cruelest lesson:
no one should leave like this,
no one should switch off the light alone.

And even if the world tells me to accept it,
I refuse.
I write to you today, I will write tomorrow,
I will write while I have a voice,
to remind you that you were, that you are, that you matter,
even if your body is no longer here.