The hospital ward buzzed with quiet activity—nurses moving between rooms, patients resting under the pale fluorescent lights, and the occasional hum of medical machines punctuating the silence. Lysander sat alone in the far corner, his eyes fixed on a tattered magazine he wasn't really reading. The familiar scent of antiseptic and sterilized air hung heavily around him, a stark reminder of where he was.
For Lysander, the hospital was just another stop in a meaningless existence. He'd stopped caring about life long ago, long before the diagnosis of cancer. It was just another excuse for the universe to pull him further into the void. He hadn't told anyone about his inner struggles, not even his family, who were more concerned with the logistics of his treatment than his emotions.
Across the room, Amara entered, her scarf wrapped neatly over her head, hiding the toll that chemotherapy had taken. Unlike Lysander, her presence seemed to light up the drab surroundings. She greeted the nurses with a warm smile, chatting with them as if they were old friends. Her voice was cheerful, carrying a note of optimism that felt almost out of place.
When her gaze fell on Lysander, she paused. There was something different about him—something that piqued her curiosity. Despite his youthful face, his posture and expression carried the weight of someone far older, someone who had given up.
"You're always here, aren't you?" she said, walking over to his corner.
Lysander looked up, startled. It had been days, maybe weeks, since someone had spoken to him other than to discuss his treatment schedule. He blinked, unsure of how to respond.
"I've seen you here before," she continued, sitting in the chair next to him without waiting for an invitation. "You're Lysander, right?"
"How do you know my name?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.
She smiled. "Nurse told me. I'm Amara, by the way. Nice to meet you."
Lysander frowned, glancing around the room. He wasn't used to strangers initiating conversations, let alone sitting beside him as if they were old friends.
"You're always so quiet," Amara said, leaning back in her chair. "Don't you get bored sitting here all day?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
She laughed softly, the sound bright and melodic. "Fine? That's the most boring answer I've ever heard. What do you do for fun, then?"
"Nothing."
Amara raised an eyebrow. "Nothing? Come on, there's got to be something. Movies? Books? Music?"
Lysander sighed, clearly uninterested in the conversation, but Amara didn't seem to mind. She kept talking, filling the space between them with stories about herself—her childhood, her favorite books, and how she used to dream of becoming a traveler.
"You know, after I beat this thing," she said, tapping her IV line, "I'm going to visit every corner of this country. I've even made a list of places I want to see. What about you? Got any plans after this?"
"No," Lysander replied curtly, his gaze falling back to the magazine.
Amara didn't press further. Instead, she smiled and stood up. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Lysander. Try not to be so gloomy, okay? Life's too short for that."
He watched her walk away, her scarf trailing slightly behind her. Her words echoed in his mind—Life's too short for that.
For the first time in years, Lysander felt something stir within him. It wasn't hope, not yet, but a flicker of curiosity. Who was this girl, and why did she care so much about a stranger like him?
That night, as he lay in his hospital bed, her smile lingered in his thoughts.