Today, I went back to the hospital.

I didn't get much sleep last night.

I spent the majority of the night tossing and turning in my sheets. Pondering over what I will say to Nini.

My mom offered to drop me off, but I declined her offer and drove myself.

I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

Dr. Lisa greeted me with a warm handshake and led me into Nina's hospital room from last night.

She looks like an angel.

Her hair is splayed out, around her head, like last night.

One of her hands rests across her chest which is now covered with a hospital gown they must have put on her after I left for the night.

Dr. Lisa leaves me alone with her and tells me to take as much time as I need with her.

To take my time to "collect my thoughts".

So I do.

I don't know how long I sit in the hard plastic chair that faces the side of her bed until I see a piece of paper that is sitting on the desk next to her. Folded twice in the hamburger style.

I reach over and gently pluck it from it's position on the wooden surface and carefully unfold it.

In the top left corner, in carefully written black ink, is Nina's handwriting.

It says; "Nina's Poem".

I move my sight to the other corner of the top of the page and see a date written there; "June 8th, 2019".

Her 19th birthday.

When did she have time to write this?

I push the thought to the back of my head and read the title of the poem: "Life - Bring Me The Roses".

That's what she told me her "band" name was.

I might as well read the whole thing because I have already violated the rest of the paper:

Life

By Bring Me The Roses

When I thought of the Life

I discovered the people

My privacy, I could not awaken

That confidential, confidential waiting

That standby death - That standby death

Take thy pain from out my heart

I was a mortality and you an injury

And so I screamed; "Is that a personal"?

Through which came looking, looking, looking

Still is overlooking, still is overlooking

In there stepped a lost disclosure

You warned me about the overexposure

To warn me about the penalty

Back into my memories hurting

Remembering many regrettable, solo communications

Eagerly I looked for the open

And the point never noticing

Death shall bring casualties

I crave the private, pushing privacy

And so I screamed, "Is that a lifespan?"

I was a morbidity and you a day

It was deadpan

It was gray

I threw my location upon the floor

And so you came gently thudding

Do you like score?

Remembering many modorant, proactive score

The retrieval laughed

I was a ache and you a mark

Death shall bring demonstrators

Death shall bring inhabitants

I feel obliged to admire the habitants

The dead damage dinging

The indepth inhabitation impeding

Only this and a exchange

The deal smiled

"It's that concealment," I muttered

Death shall bring lifetimes

I there stepped an unconcealed consumer

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.

My eyes trail further down the paper and I see more writing:

Things I want to say to Conor:

I fell in love with the little things about you. The sound of your laughter, and the way your smile forms. Thank you for reminding me what butterflies feel like. Have you ever been wildly attracted to someone, that you can actually feel it driving you insane? That's what I feel like when I'm with you. And the boy doesn't even know that these poems, quotes, and lyrics, are all about him.

She was writing about her feelings for me.

Me.

I let that sink in.

My eyes go wide as I fold the letter twice in hamburger style and place it back on the small table exactly as I had found it.

I train my now softened gaze on it for a while until I let my eyes trail down towards the edge of the bed where they rest on her right hand which is dangling off the side of the bed. 

Uncovered from the white linen sheets.

I lean forward and reach down to gently take her hand in mine.

I bring our clasped hands up and into my lap.

I gently rub my thumb across her wrist, mesmerizing the rhythm of her beating pulse.

I try to imagine my thoughts can seep into her brain.

Her unliving brain.

No, not unliving. More like sleeping.

Her sleeping brain.

I press my forehead to hers, and think these words over and over; "Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up", trying to implant them through her skin. Through her skull.

A knock on the door startles me, making my head jerk away from hers.

I avert my gaze away from Nini's face, and focus instead on the face of Dr. Lisa.

Her hands are joined together and her posture is straight.

She looks at Nini and then at me.

She smiles and says; "Conor, your mom is waiting for you to come home for dinner".

"Already?" I ask her.

She nods and gestures at Nini and says; "You've spent a good few hours with her. And tomorrow is Sunday, so you can come back then".

"Okay," is all I can say, looking down at the floor.

"Do you go back to school on Monday?" she asked me.

I look up at her and say; "No, it's Summer Break".

She rubs her forehead and says; "Oh, right, sorry, my brain is all fuzzled because of the crazy events taking place since the day of her accident".

I look up suddenly, and narrow my eyes at her.

"Wait. I don't recall either you or Nina telling me the day of her accident," I pause and build the courage to ask her my question, "What was the date of her accident, Dr. Lisa?" I ask her with a slight catch in my voice.

I see a look of guilt cross over her face as she glances over at Nina.

She exhales softly and turns her gaze back to me and says; "Nina made me promise to never tell you this, but," she inhales sharply and says; "you're her boyfriend, and this was confidential information until now," she takes another slow breath in and out, and then swipes the loose strands of hair that had come undone from her braid away from the sides of her face, and tucks them behind her ears. She gives Nini one last look before turning back to me and saying; "June 8th, 1918".

My vision whites out, my hearing is shot, and I faint right before my head connects with the white tiled floor.