Cold steel chairs adeptly lined became our living room, elevator was our ride, pharmacy was our grocery store. Everything became bland, the white walls took out all the colors we had. Smiles were replaced with tight-lipped lines. Silence permeated the once boisterous bubble we had.

Like imprinted pages, each passing day is a blank paper. Some days, you'd witness a nurse bringing fresh flowers, other days you'd gawk at young doctors, some you'd see familial bond, other days were just plain grief. I had come to see stories of others too. Time spent in the hospital were chapters allocated, so vividly portrayed in the eyes of those who watched closely.

First, is the wailing, crying, grieving. It was normal.

Second, is the farewell---the part where you'd get to decide. The call.

Third and worst of all, are the stretchers. There's no time, may it be at the crack of dawn or the crevice of dusk. Bodies covered in white linen stride past the hallways.

Last thing next to that are the stories.

The thing about life is that, the longer you live, all the more times you'd be left. Our hospital stay was long, we were the ones who knew the ones that got to see the sun rise and those that witnessed sunsets.

Keith.

Keith witnessed his last sunset at September 1st.