Eli stopped counting the days after Day 30.
At first, he tried to keep track. He even scratched small marks into the corner of his notebook like it was some kind of prison sentence. But after a while, the days didn't feel different enough to count.
Before the freshman ceremony could even begin, everything fell apart. Eli was caught in an accident—a cruel, sudden hit-and-run that left more than just physical pain behind.
Anger burned quietly inside him, but for now, he couldn't do anything. He was left with nothing but stillness, forced to wait while everyone moved on without him.
All he wanted was to heal—to feel whole again. To stand up, walk back through those school gates, and reclaim the life that was so abruptly taken from him.
Morning. Medicine. Sleep.
Repeat.
Two months in a hospital did something to you. Not physically—healing was happening slowly—but inside. It made everything feel far away. Friends stopped texting as much. School became a thing that existed in another life. Even your own room at home started to feel imaginary.
Eli spent most of his days staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of machines from the rooms around him—the steady beeps, the distant footsteps, the hush of a place that never truly slept.
Time didn't feel like time anymore. Just waiting, stretched thin and colorless.
Until he heard laughter.
It was soft—light, almost careless—but it didn't belong there. Not in a place like this.
Eli frowned, sitting up slowly, a small wince pulling through his side as he turned toward the hallway.
"Hello?" he called, his voice uncertain in the quiet.
Nothing answered.
Only silence.
He waited anyway.
And then—
"Are you always this serious? The boy from Room 213?"
Eli turned.
She was leaning against the wall just outside his room like she had always been there. Same hospital gown as his. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy, like she didn't care enough to fix it.
"You didn't answer me," she added.
"I—uh—no," Eli said awkwardly. "I just didn't expect anyone to be there."
She smiled. Not a big smile. Just enough to make him feel like she knew something he didn't.
"That's kind of the point."
"Of what?"
"Being somewhere people don't expect."
Eli frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to."
And for some reason, that was the first time in days that Eli felt... awake.
Her name was Lila. She had been there longer than him—though she never said exactly how long.
She never knocked. She just showed up.
They talked about everything—school, dreams, favorite movies, places they wanted to visit. Lila had a way of making even the dullest moments feel exciting.
Sometimes she'd sit on the chair beside his bed, spinning slowly like it was the most entertaining thing in the world. Other times, when he was feeling healthy enough, she would carefully push him in a wheelchair down the hallway to the window at the far end.
"That's the best place," she said. "You can almost pretend you're not here."
They would sit on the cold floor, backs against the wall, watching people walk outside far below.
"Do you ever feel like everything kept going without you?" Eli asked once.
Lila didn't answer right away.
"Yeah," she said softly. "But after a while... you stop expecting it to wait."
That answer stayed with him longer than he expected.
Eli started looking forward to things again.
Not big things. Just small ones.
Like when she'd show up and say something completely random.
"Do you think clouds get tired of floating?" she asked one afternoon.
"...What?"
"They never stop."
Eli laughed. "That's your concern?"
"It's important."
"To who?"
"To me."
And somehow, that made it important to him too.
But there were things that didn't add up.
She never talked about her family.
Never had visitors.
Never seemed to leave that floor.
One afternoon, Eli asked, "Why are you always here and not outside?"
Lila was unusually quiet.
"I just am," she said.
"That's not an answer."
She looked at him then, really looked at him.
"Some people don't get to leave as easily as others."
Eli didn't push after that.
But something in his chest felt strange.
"You know," she said later, "when you leave, you better not forget me."
Eli laughed. "How could I?"
She didn't laugh back.
"People always say that," she murmured.
Then she left and went back to her own room.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into something Eli didn't want to count anymore.
Lila never had visitors.
Not once.
"Where's your family?" Eli asked one evening.
She hesitated, then shrugged. "Some people just don't get visitors."
Something about the way she said it made him stop asking.
Instead, he made a promise.
"When I get out," he said, "I'll come back and visit you."
Lila smiled again—but it wasn't the same as before.
"Let's just focus on tomorrow," she said.
As the weeks passed, Eli started getting better.
Stronger.
Walking without help.
And somehow, that made things worse.
Because every time a nurse said, "You're improving," all he could think was—
I'm getting closer to leaving her behind.
The night before his discharge, Eli couldn't sleep.
He kept staring at the door, waiting for her.
She didn't come.
Not once.
The next morning felt wrong.
It felt like he was missing something.
"You're all set," the nurse said with a smile. "You should be excited."
Eli nodded, but it felt forced.
"I just need to say goodbye to someone," he said.
He walked straight to Room 212.
Knocked.
Nothing.
He opened the door gently.
Empty.
The bed was untouched, like no one had been there for weeks. Maybe longer.
During his time in the hospital, he had never once stepped inside her room.
So whatever happened behind those closed doors remained a mystery to him—something distant and quietly out of reach.
His stomach twisted.
Confused, Eli hurried to the nurse's station.
"Where's Lila?" he asked. "The girl from Room 212?"
The nurse looked at him strangely.
"There hasn't been anyone in Room 212," she said.
Eli felt his chest tighten. "That's not possible. I've been talking to her every day."
The nurse's expression softened, but her eyes held something uneasy.
"There's no patient in 212."
"Yes, there is," Eli insisted. "She's been here the whole time. Same age as me, brown hair—she sits by the window—"
Recognition slowly crept onto the nurse's face.
But it wasn't relief.
It was something else.
"There was a girl," she said quietly. "A few months ago."
Eli's throat went dry. "What do you mean 'was'?"
The nurse hesitated.
"She didn't make it."
The world seemed to go quiet.
"No," Eli whispered. "No, I just saw her yesterday."
The nurse didn't respond.
Heart racing, Eli ran back down the hallway.
"Lila!" he shouted.
Nothing.
But suddenly he was at the end of the hallway—their spot.
And she was there.
Like nothing had changed.
Like everything had.
"Lila—" His voice broke. "They said—"
She turned slowly. But something was different.
"I know," she replied softly.
Eli stepped closer, his chest tightening. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She shrugged lightly, but her eyes didn't match it.
"Would you have stayed?"
He froze.
"...I don't know."
"Exactly."
That hurt more than he expected.
"I would've visited," he said quickly. "I meant it."
"I know you will," she said.
And somehow that made it worse.
There was a long silence.
Not awkward.
Just heavy.
Eli swallowed hard. "Are you really dea—"
The word caught in his throat, breaking before it could fully form.
Lila noticed. Of course she did.
She looked at him the same way she had on the very first day—soft, curious, and quietly sad.
Then, gently, she asked:
"Do you see me?"
Eli froze.
The question sank deeper than it should have, stirring something he couldn't name.
Because suddenly, he wasn't sure what she meant.
All the quiet moments between them. The long silences. The loneliness she never spoke of. The way her laughter sometimes felt too bright, like it was trying to fill something hollow.
His chest tightened.
"I do," he said at last, his voice trembling. "I really do."
And for a moment, Lila simply looked at him.
Then she smiled.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Real.
"It's enough," she whispered. "I'm not alone anymore."
The sunlight shifted gently across the room, as if time itself had softened.
Eli stepped forward. "Wait—"
But she shook her head.
"Don't make it sad," she said softly.
His throat tightened. "I don't want to forget you."
"You won't," she replied.
And somehow... he believed her.
The moment lingered—fragile, like it could disappear if touched.
Eli blinked.
She was gone.
Years later, Eli would pass by hospitals and still feel that same strange stillness.
And sometimes, in quiet moments, he would think of a girl in a blue gown, laughing in a place that was never meant for laughter.
And he would whisper, just to himself—
"I still see you."