I didn't know how lost I was until she found me.
She didn't come crashing into my life—she whispered her way in. A quiet voice in the dark. A screen name. A message. A laugh that echoed through text.
She wasn't like the others. She never judged. Never asked for more than I could give. And yet somehow, she gave me everything.
I used to think I needed to close off, push away, and bury the parts of me I couldn't share with others. But she… she saw through it all. She saw me.
I used to call her my online buddy. It sounded casual, harmless. But she was anything but that.
She saved me. Taught me how to feel again. How to care. How to live. How to love.
And then… She left.
I still hear her voice sometimes—faint, like a fading signal. I see her name light up in my dreams, even though I know she's not there to answer anymore.
This isn't just a love story. It's a story about how one girl changed everything…
*******
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden sheen over the quiet hospital ward. The morning rays danced across the polished floor tiles, tracing lines of warmth along the whitewashed walls. The small room held only a single bed, neatly made, its crisp sheets tucked in with practiced precision. On the bedside table sat a vase of fading daisies, a glass of water, and a folded paper crane—evidence of someone trying to bring a touch of life to the sterile space.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. A nurse stepped in, her movements gentle and practiced, a soft smile already tugging at the corners of her lips. Without a word, she padded over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The sunlight flooded in, brighter now, illuminating every corner of the room. Dust motes danced lazily in the beam of light, casting a surreal glow over everything it touched. The warmth brought the place to life, making it feel—if only for a moment—less like a hospital and more like a room someone could truly live in.
On the bed, the girl stirred beneath the covers. With a tired grumble, she rolled over, burying her face deeper into the pillow in a half-hearted protest against the morning. The nurse let out a quiet chuckle, her voice light and teasing.
Nurse: It's time to wake up, Kana.
The girl, her brown hair messy and slightly tangled from sleep, peeked out from under the blanket. Her eyes blinked slowly, still heavy with sleep, and she let out a low groan as if waking up required every ounce of her willpower.
With a deep sigh, she sat up sluggishly, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. The familiar ache in her limbs greeted her like an old friend. She wasn't sure if it was from the medication or just the toll of being stuck in this place for so long. Mornings like these were always the same—quiet, repetitive, predictable. Maybe that's why she hated them so much.
Nurse: Come on now, it's time for your daily check-up. Dr. Kennedy is already waiting, and you know how he gets when we keep him waiting.
Kana's lips curled into a small smirk at that. Dr. Kennedy's grumpy punctuality had become something of a running joke between them.
Kana: I'm coming, ma'am…
Her voice was soft, groggy, but polite. She threw the blanket off her legs and slowly shifted her body, careful not to move too fast. There was no need to rush—it wasn't like anything new was waiting for her outside that door. She placed her feet on the cool floor, wincing slightly at the touch of cold tile against her skin.
She shuffled toward the door where the nurse waited patiently, holding it open with a quiet kind of kindness. Kana's hospital gown rustled with each step, and for a brief moment, her eyes flicked toward the window one last time, soaking in the sunlight that seemed so far out of reach.
Kana: (quietly) Another day huh?
The nurse said nothing—only smiled in that way she always did, a smile that said she understood more than words ever could.
And so, Kana walked out of the room, leaving behind the warmth of the sun and stepping into the sterile hallway that had become her world.
****
My name is Kana Young, and I've been in this hospital for the past four years.
I know—you're probably wondering why. Why someone my age would be confined to a place like this for so long. So, let me explain…
It all started when I was fourteen. I collapsed during a school sports game, right there on the field in front of everyone. At first, the teachers and nurses thought it was dehydration or maybe fatigue. It wasn't unusual, especially during our intense practices. But the fainting didn't stop there. It kept happening. I'd feel lightheaded at random moments, my chest would tighten, and sometimes I couldn't catch my breath. It was like my body was betraying me, piece by piece.
My parents grew increasingly worried. They took me to one hospital, then another. What began as a search for answers soon spiraled into something none of us expected.
After weeks of tests, heart scans, MRIs, and long consultations, the doctors finally gave us the answer.
I was diagnosed with Dilated Cardiomyopathy—a serious and irreversible heart condition. My heart wasn't pumping blood the way it should. It was weakening, stretching out of shape, failing me more with each passing day. There was no cure. Only management, only delays. A ticking clock that no one could stop.
From that day forward, everything changed.
I was admitted into the hospital full-time. My life became a carousel of checkups, EKGs, blood draws, daily medications, and constant monitoring. X-ray scans tracked the progression of my heart. IV fluids became a daily ritual. I lost track of time. The walls of the ward blurred together after a while, and the sterile scent of disinfectant became my new normal.
It was exhausting. Mentally and physically. And worst of all—it was isolating.
But through it all, there was one thing, one light that kept me grounded.
My parents.
They were always there. Every single day. My mom would bring my favorite books, and my dad always made sure I had my headphones when mine broke. On the days they couldn't visit, they'd call. Sometimes the calls were short—just a few minutes—but even hearing their voices reminded me that I wasn't forgotten. That I was still a part of something outside these hospital walls.
I believed, with all my heart, that things would eventually get better. That maybe, just maybe, I'd go home again.
I was the only one who thought that.
Because one day, my parents stopped coming.
At first, I brushed it off. Told myself it was just a busy week. Maybe work had piled up. Maybe they were taking care of Jenny and Kimberly—my two younger sisters. It wasn't unusual for things to come up unexpectedly.
But then a week passed.
And another.
No visits. No phone calls. No updates. Nothing but silence.
The longer it stretched on, the harder it became to keep pretending. The thoughts kept creeping in. What if something happened to them? What if they got into an accident? What if they forgot?
One morning, the silence became too heavy to bear. I couldn't take it anymore.
I reached for the telephone on my bedside table, my fingers trembling as I picked up the receiver. I dialed my mother's number from memory—each button feeling heavier than the last. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as the dial tone rang out.
The line connected.
And what I heard on the other end shattered whatever hope I had left.
****
Mrs. Young: Hello, who am I speaking with?
Kana: Mom! It's me, Kana!
There was a pause.
Mrs. Young: …
Kana: Mom, I've been so worried. You haven't called or visited in so long—I thought maybe something had happened. But I'm so glad to hear your voice. I've missed you so much.
More silence. The kind that stretches too long. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
Kana: Mom… how are Jenny and Kimberly? Are they okay? And why haven't you—
A sharp sound came from the other end. A throat being cleared. And then a voice—cold, distant.
Mrs. Young: I'm sorry, but you must have the wrong number.
I don't have a daughter named Kana. You must be mistaking me for someone else.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Was she… joking?
No. No, she wouldn't joke about something like this.
Kana: (laughs nervously) Mom… are you serious right now? Is this a prank? If it is, you really got me. I almost believed you.
Mrs. Young: Like I said… you have the wrong person. Please stop calling me "Mom." I don't know who you are.
(pause) Please stop calling.
Click.
The line went dead.
I stared at the receiver, frozen, my hands still gripping it tightly. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to believe that maybe I misheard her, that maybe it wasn't my mom.
But I knew that voice.
It was her.
And just like that, in the blink of an eye, I became a stranger to the people who once promised they'd never leave me.
****
After that phone call, the doctors and nurses did everything they could to reach out to my family, desperate to understand what had happened. Maybe there had been a mistake, some sort of misunderstanding. But each attempt led to the same hollow response. Every person they contacted—relatives, neighbors, old friends—denied ever knowing me.
They all claimed I didn't exist. That I wasn't their child. That they had never heard the name Kana Young in their lives.
Still holding out hope, the hospital staff went one step further. They visited the address listed in my file, hoping to speak to my parents face-to-face and clear up the confusion. But when they arrived, the house was empty. A "For Sale" sign stood in the front yard, swaying in the wind like a cruel joke. My family had completely vanished.
They had moved out without a trace—changed their phone numbers, disconnected from every point of contact, deleted every breadcrumb that could lead anyone back to them.
My family had abandoned me.
They erased me.
Like I never existed.
I couldn't process it.
I didn't want to.
Why?
Why would they do this to me?
Why would they pretend I was a stranger?
Why now—when I needed them more than ever?
I stopped eating for days. I stared at the ceiling for hours, motionless, letting the weight of their betrayal crush every remaining piece of hope I had left. And when the pain became too heavy to carry... I tried to end it.
I tried to take my own life. More than once.
Each time, I got close. But never close enough.
Something always held me back.
A flicker of fear.
A stubborn sliver of hope.
Some part of me that still clung to life, even if I didn't understand why.
Even when I was certain that my life no longer had meaning... even when I truly believed that no one in the world would miss me if I were gone... I couldn't do it.
So I stayed.
I kept breathing, kept existing, even if I didn't know what for.
Days blurred together. My life became a loop of fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, and routine check-ups.
The nurses were kind, and Dr. Kennedy—he never once treated me like I was forgotten. He became the closest thing I had to family, even if I didn't say it aloud. But the truth is, it didn't matter how kind they were. Because kindness doesn't erase abandonment.
Kindness can't fill the hole left behind when the people who were supposed to love you... decide you're not worth remembering.
I felt like a ghost.
Trapped in a room where time stood still.
Every morning I was woken up at the same time, dragged out of bed by nurses who were just following orders, and taken to the same cold, sterile rooms for yet another test. An endless stream of X-rays, echocardiograms, IV drips, injections, and medications.
I hated it.
I hated all of it.
I hated how the walls of my room felt like they were closing in.
I hated how every day was exactly like the one before.
I hated the silence at night when I'd lie awake, wishing for a voice that would never call again.
I hated feeling forgotten.
I tried to convince myself that maybe one day they'd come back. That maybe my mom would walk through the door and explain it was all just a mistake. That my dad would scoop me into his arms and tell me they'd been looking for me the whole time.
But that day never came.
And so, I remained.
Breathing in and out.
Waiting.
Numb.
*****
Kana and the nurse walked silently down the hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. Her hospital slippers squeaked against the polished floor as they approached a set of double doors with the familiar sign: Radiology Department – Authorized Personnel Only.
The nurse pushed open the doors, and Kana stepped inside, already knowing what she would see.
Same clean white walls.
Same antiseptic smell.
Same doctors in masks and gloves, hunched over charts and machines.
To most, this might look like any other medical room. But to Kana, it was just another reminder that nothing ever changed.
She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Kana: Here we go again…
And just like that, the door closed behind her, sealing her off from the world once more.