𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇 Suguru Geto

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

"HEY, HONEY," SUGURU'S VOICE BROKE the silence as he entered the room, a vibrant tulip held delicately in his hand. The petals displayed a captivating gradient of colors, a reflection of the care he had taken in choosing the flower. "I've brought you a tulip, one of your favorite flowers," he spoke with a soft smile, his eyes fixed on her as he settled the flower on the table beside her.

He consciously willed himself to adopt a casual tone, a deliberate effort to mask the complexity of his emotions. Since her confinement here, he had navigated the delicate balance of acting as naturally as he could in her presence. Each visit was a dance, an attempt to engage in the mundane conversations that had once been the heartbeat of their shared life. They used to chatter endlessly about their engagement, weaving dreams of the future with the threads of their plans. Those conversations had been their anchor, a sanctuary of shared hopes.

But then, the storm of unforeseen calamity had shattered the tranquility they had known. Now, in this sterile room, he treaded carefully, aiming to resurrect their shared narratives in the hopes that his words would breach the walls of her silence. He wasn't certain if she could truly hear him; the medical community was divided on the matter. Some experts argued that those in comas retained the ability to process conversations, potentially recalling them later, while others subscribed to a bleaker perspective. The uncertainty left him suspended between hope and doubt.

While uncertainty clung to him like a shadow, he had chosen to align himself with the skeptics' perspective. It was a decision rooted in pragmatism, a choice to navigate the present based on the most cautious viewpoint available. Amid the contradictory voices of medical opinion, he had chosen a path of restraint, choosing not to bank too heavily on the possibility that his words were reaching her ears.

With the new day's light filtering through the window, Suguru once again found himself at her bedside. He pulled up a chair, his gaze drawn to her serene form. There was a mix of emotions in his eyes—longing, sadness, and a touch of hope. Holding her delicate hand in his, his thumb traced tender circles over her knuckles, a gesture that conveyed his unwavering presence by her side.

As he watched over her, a shadow of melancholy crossed his features. The weight of the days they had lost, the moments that had slipped through their fingers while she lay in slumber, bore down on him. Each moment apart felt like an ache that reverberated through his heart. And yet, amidst the ache, he drew comfort from the simple act of being there with her. The world outside seemed to mirror his feelings, the air cold and heavy, with clouds threatening rain, as if nature itself mourned with him.

"Recently, I don't know what's happening to me," he confessed, his expression a mixture of introspection and vulnerability. A bittersweet smile played on his lips as he gazed at her. "I just feel this emptiness, this void, whenever I'm not around you."

But then, amidst the tangle of emotions, a subtle detail snagged his attention—the clock mounted on the wall, its hands frozen in an eternal embrace, forever marking a moment in time. An unintended symbol of their own suspended existence. With a quiet exhalation, he reluctantly released her hand from his gentle grasp, his fingers loosening their connection. He spared a thoughtful glance at the unyielding clock, a subtle determination brewing within him to mend what little he could, to nudge the world back into motion.

His hand reached out, fingers poised to set the hands of time in motion, to restore a semblance of normalcy to the stillness that enveloped them. As his touch met the cool surface of the clock, a sudden sound, delicate and heart-wrenching, sliced through the silence—a tear-laden voice, carrying with it an unspoken weight of grief he could never have foreseen.

Her voice, like a fragile melody on the edge of a breeze, seemed to paint the air with the hues of her sorrow. It was a whisper, a muffled confession of the pain she carried within her, a sound that pierced through the fragile cocoon of their world. The rawness of her emotions hung in the air like a veil, revealing the depths of her heartache and yearning.

Startled by the unexpected sound, Suguru's focus shifted abruptly, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that transcended words. For a suspended moment, everything else faded away—the sterile hospital room, the frozen clock, the weight of time itself—leaving only the two of them, bound by the shared current of their emotions. In that instance, their connection felt profound, as if the universe had conspired to grant them a fleeting moment of communion, allowing their souls to converse in the language of unspoken feelings.

"Suguru..."