She was unconscious for a week. I know, because I visited her everyday, waiting by her bedside to wake up.
One day, about halfway through that time, I decided to try something. No one was around, and Elsa was unconscious. There would be no harm to anyone, I remember mentally reassuring myself before the act.
I leaned over her, one hand caressing her face and the other positioned beside her for leverage, before I kissed her.
It was different from the almost-kiss that had happened in elementary. Both of our lips were dry, and the kiss held far more heat to it. It was less sloppy, though not entirely clean-cut either. It was pleasant.
I pulled back suddenly, as I heard some noise from down the hall. My eyes were wide and my face flushed. I balled a hand, pressing it over my mouth, as though trying to press the memory of her into myself.
When I dared to look back down at Elsa, I was almost disappointed to see that she hadn't woken up, like in the fairytales.
I started crying suddenly. It was crying like what happened when the principal told me about the crash. Several nurses rushed in, trying to calm me down, making empty promises that relied on fate alone. They said all sorts of things, about Elsa getting better, and that'd she'd be waking up soon.
I didn't have it in me to tell them the real reason I was crying. I didn't want to tell them the real reason I was crying, because it was oh-so incredibly selfish.
I didn't want to tell them the real reason I was crying: my love wasn't "true" enough.