The girl who was put in the bedside beside mine was who I became attached to, because of the doctors words. "She only has about a year or so to live even with the medicine and hookups."
She was like me and I could only hold her as she cried at night. "I want to go outside and play," she's sob into my arms and I'd hold her only able to brush her paled cheeks as large tears dribbled down her face.
My mother was busy with work, I'd be left alone with the parentless child sharing stories of magic and fairytails. I broke her out once for twice, always getting scolded at by the doctors later. She was like me, I like her. Fated to die without any help.
I hugged her as if she were my sister or my own. This young girl had to venture into this dark, short life all alone. Only my world had ended before her own did. She must've cried and cried when she awoke to my cold body. When the monitor went flat. My own mother wasn't there either, I knew it. She was there for me when I left like when I was there for her.
Then not much later she was at my side again, surrounded with me by golden butterflies.