"Hey, Amu," I say, sitting in the chair near the hospital bed. I don't expect a reply, but part of me is hoping.
Hoping that somehow, Amu will wake up, and things will return to normal.
"You know, Amu," I continue, pushing the thoughts of normalness from my head. "I once heard that if someone's in a coma, they can still hear people around them."
It's like I can hear Amu replying, "What are you, stupid?" She'd laugh, and I'd join in. Then I'd do something pervy and she'd blush.
The scene in my head almost seems normal.
"So, Amu... what do you think? Can you hear me?"
The nurses and visitors that pass by our room peek inside. They probably think I'm crazy, I think, for talking to someone that can't even hear me.
I lean closer to Amu's body. She looks so fragile. Like I could break her just by touching her.
My mouth lingers by her ear. I know that if she were awake, she would turn as red as a tomato and move away. I smile slightly at the thought.
"Amu, can you hear me?" I whisper.
Amu doesn't move. She doesn't twitch, her eyelids don't flutter. But there's a feeling of hope inside of me, and I feel strangely happy.
My voice gets quieter as I whisper my last words, hoping that, somehow, she'll hear them.
"I love you, Amu."