"I'm not sick, I'm dying."

That's the last thing you said to me before I couldn't look at you the same. Those five words, they changed my whole perspective. Why?

Because they were true.

You were right. There was no getting better. There was no coming back from this. There wasn't a bright side to look on.

It wasn't getting better, and that's just the way it was, still is.

I still visited you everyday, even though it wasn't the same. We would talk, but neither of us could say much. It's like you weren't completely there, so therefore I wasn't really either. For years you kept me here, in this city, on this planet. You were my anchor. So when you started to drift away, I did, too.

The kisses weren't the same. The 'I love you's we exchanged felt empty. Not in the way that we didn't love each other anymore, I still love you with all my heart. Just that we knew it wouldn't matter. The fact that we loved each other couldn't save you. It couldn't save us.

Nothing could have saved us.

We used to sit in that bland, white room talking about what we would do when you got better. I would talk about how on your first day back the whole house would be decorated with your favorite type of flowers and how once you were strong enough we could travel the world. I would tell you everything that you would know if you were living a normal life. And you would smile and laugh, just like before. But soon our conversations became less hopeful.
You weren't getting better. You were getting worse. And I knew you still wanted to believe that it would all get better. I did, too. I think I was still believing long after you had given up.

Sometimes you wouldn't tell me the things the doctors told you until later. All you really wanted was for me to be happy so you figured that if I didn't know I would be happier. But eventually you would have to tell me and I could see the heartbreak in your eyes when I started talking less, smiling less. I wanted to make it easier for you; I wanted to be able to tell you it was going to be fine. I wanted to tell you about our friends and how they were doing. I wanted to plan my life with you.

But when I looked at your pale face and the machines surrounding you, I couldn't seem to put a convincing smile on my face. And that's what I regret most. Maybe if I just could have been stronger, we would have both been happier. At the end, neither of us could muster anything close to a smile. I couldn't comfort you. I couldn't say anything.

One time, the doctors said you were getting better. They said you could go outside and eat lunch with me. So I took you to a park. Of course there was an ambulance parked ten feet away from us and doctors were constantly watching us, but it was still nice. We sat on a blanket I had laid out and we had our first normal conversation in weeks. You were getting better.

There was still a part of me that said that you weren't, though. I just ignored it. You were laughing and eating and I couldn't have been happier. Your face had color; you looked healthy. We both just forgot about the past couple months. It was almost a normal day.

When it was time to head back, you waved goodbye with a huge smile on your face. And it looked like it was really getting better for a few days. It really did.

I was in your room, sitting on the chair with my head on my arms, resting on your bed. You were telling a story about something trivial that was going on in the hospital. I was happy. You had energy in your voice. The treatment was working. When I needed to go home, I stood up and was about to wave goodbye. Then something happened; I can't quite remember what, though. I remember screaming and doctors flooding the room. I remember two of them pulling me out of the room, tears streaming down my face. I remember crying in the waiting room, hoping to god that you were okay. I remember a doctor coming out and telling me that you had survived, but you weren't doing well. I remember sighing in relief, but a knot was forming in the pit of my stomach. The confirmation that I had been right earlier, that this couldn't last, that we couldn't be happy forever.

And after that, that's when you said those five words that changed my life. I finally accepted that it really wasn't getting better. And I'm sorry for not telling you that you were wrong, that you would get better, that you could win. All I could do was sit there and shake. I shook so badly. I still do, I still notice my handwriting is skewed; all my pictures still come out blurry. But it's not like I take pictures anymore. There isn't anything worth documenting anymore. I don't want any pictures of the world without you. Even in the old pictures that I have that don't have you in them, you were still in the world. Maybe I hadn't even met you, but someone else out there got to enjoy your company.

Now nobody gets to enjoy your company.

During the last days, I spent as much time as I could with you. I would spend all day at the hospital. I wouldn't leave until you were asleep, and I would try to get back before you awoke again. By that point, the doctors started telling me things, too. They said I should prepare. They said that I should leave every night with a goodbye I would satisfied with, because they don't know when it'll come, just that it'll come soon. I could barely look at you. Every time I did, it just reminded me that our perfect life ended a long time ago and we weren't getting it back. It just reminded me of your suffering. And I couldn't even bear to think about that. I was being selfish. I should have comforted you, I should have just talked like I used to. But I couldn't even get through one of our measly exchanging of hellos without almost tearing up. Because every time, my only thought was that it could be our last. Our last hello. I never wanted a last hello with you.

The days passed slowly. I wanted to cherish every moment I had with you, but every time I sat in that hospital room I wanted to run away and cry. That's why I would go home at night. That was me running away and crying. But soon enough I didn't have any tears left. We stopped speaking. We just sat in silence. For how much pain it caused me, I can't even imagine how much you were going through. I wanted to say something so badly, but everything sounded wrong.

That last night, no one knew it would be your last night. Nothing particularly special happened. I had gotten so used to the routine of leaving and coming back everyday, I hadn't really been thinking about my goodbye each time. I didn't say anything particularly profound, there were no words of encouragement. And it kills me everyday that I didn't say something else. Everyday I wish that I had treated every goodnight like a last goodbye. I'll never get to say what I wanted to say to you. Even now, I don't know what I would have said to you. I just know that I want to be able to say something more, but I don't get that chance. I don't get a second chance. All I did was kiss you on the forehead and say that I loved you. I was so tired I didn't even leave the hospital that night. I might have even been in your room when you died. I think about that everyday, I could have been holding your hand when you went. I could have been there for you till the very last moment but I wasn't. I wasn't there.

The next day I wasn't sitting in that chair leaning against your bed. Someone had moved me into a different room. The moment I woke up in that strange room, I knew it was over. They had never moved me before. They just left me with you.

I wandered around the hospital. I wanted to see your doctor, but I didn't want a confirmation of my thoughts. When I did find him, he calmly told me what happened. You went peacefully in your sleep, but after that I couldn't hear anything. All I felt was pounding in my head. My heartbeat, reminding me that I was still alive and you weren't.

The first few months were hard. Everything I had reminded me of you. Just sitting in our apartment was hard. It still is hard, sometimes. I'm not the only one who misses you. Your family was just as heartbroken, of course. They've moved on now, well as much as they can. I still find myself looking for you, and I'm sure they do, too. The knot in my stomach that formed on the first morning has never gone away. I like to think of it as my body knowing that something is wrong. Something is wrong that can never be corrected. It's a signal that I will never really be complete without you.

I learned so much from you from our years together. You taught me how to be happy and I wish I could have done something as great for you. We made plans together for 10 lifetimes. You never got to complete even one of those lifetimes. Your lifetime was cut short unfairly; I refuse to believe anything else. You should have lived to be 100 years old, but you didn't even get to complete one third of those years.

It has been so long since that night, and I know that I should have moved on by now. I'm trying, I really am. But you were always the perfect match for me. How could I get over someone like you? Maybe each of us has multiple soul mates in this world, but right now I really can't fathom loving anyone else as much as I love you.

I walk the streets aimlessly, I work without motivation, I live without will. I know this isn't what you would have wanted for me, but I really can't do anything without you. Maybe one day, I'll have the will to be alive again. But I suspect that if I don't, I won't need to worry about being alive anymore.

You ruined me, Yamaguchi Tadashi, but there is something, one thing, that I know I wish I told you more. Thank you. Thank you for making my life as good as it was for those years. I still love you so much and there isn't anything I wouldn't do to keep the memories we made together forever. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to bring you back into this world because this world is so much better with you in it.

It doesn't need me quite as much.