The routine never changed.
Every morning and night, Kana was handed the same set of medications—white capsules, pink tablets, and a bitter-tasting syrup that always made her grimace. Twice a month, without fail, she was wheeled into the X-ray room for a heart scan. The doctors told her it was necessary to keep track of her condition, to make sure her heart wasn't worsening too quickly.
The human heart is supposed to circulate blood throughout the body, delivering oxygen and nutrients to the cells. But Kana's heart didn't function the way it should. It failed to push out all the blood it received, leaving her organs starved of what they needed. Her heartbeat was uneven, erratic. Sometimes it raced for no reason. Other times, it skipped beats altogether.
She felt it constantly—the fatigue, the dizziness, the chest pains. Her body was a fragile thing, unreliable and weak. No matter how many pills they gave her, no matter how carefully they monitored her condition, it never truly got better.
To manage her symptoms, the doctors relied on a regimen of medications and IV injections. And the biweekly X-rays were their way of mapping the slow decay, of deciding how much longer they could keep her going before the next inevitable complication.
That day, her examination was brief—rushed, even. The doctors needed the lab cleared for a more urgent surgery, and Kana had become something of a routine case.
After the scan was complete, a nurse gently escorted her back to her ward.
Kana walked beside her in silence, each step slow and heavy. The moment they turned the final corner, she let out a sigh—one part relief, one part exhaustion.
Another scan. Another check-up. Another notch in the routine she loathed.
But the relief was fleeting. Almost immediately, a familiar frustration returned.
It was never truly over.
Kana: (sighs) Finally done with that whole routine… I'm so sick of taking the same drugs over and over again. Maybe it'd be better if—
Jane: Now, now. I told you not to think like that, Kana. I know these past years have been hard, but—
Kana: But what, Ms. Jane? That I shouldn't give up? My body already has. My family gave up on me. And you probably will too when my condition gets worse.
Jane: No! Stop saying that! No one is giving up on you! I would never leave you. You're like a little sister to me.
Kana: (coldly) My own family shares my blood, and that didn't stop them from abandoning me here. So why should I trust you? How do I know you're not just saying that because it's your job? Because it's convenient?
The words hung in the air like a slap.
Jane was stunned. Kana had always been quiet, gentle—even when her condition worsened, even when she was scared. But today, there was steel in her voice. Bitterness.
Jane's lips parted, but no words came. Before she could gather a response, they arrived at Kana's door.
Without waiting, Kana stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind her.
Inside the room, she leaned back against the door, eyes closed, exhaling slowly as if trying to release the weight of her anger.
Kana: (to herself) I shouldn't have snapped at her like that… It's just… (sighs) I'll apologize later.
She turned and spotted a tray of food left on the small stool beside her bed. Someone had brought her breakfast during the scan.
She walked over to it—her steps slow and careful—and examined the meal: a bowl of oatmeal, scrambled eggs that had grown slightly cold, and three slices of toast stacked neatly on a separate plate. A glass of water sat beside them, beads of condensation running down its side.
Kana sat down, picked up her spoon, and began eating in silence. Each bite felt mechanical, tasteless.
Not because the food was bad—but because everything had begun to feel the same.
---
---
A few hours later, Kana sat cross-legged on her hospital bed, scribbling into her journal—a worn, brown hardback notebook filled with dozens of handwritten pages. Its corners were bent, the spine cracked from repeated use. She never let anyone read it.
The television in the room hummed quietly in the background, playing some morning talk show. Kana paid it no mind. She barely even heard it.
All her focus was on her writing.
It wasn't a diary, she'd always insisted. It wasn't for recording what happened or how she felt.
And yet… page after page, her words betrayed her.
There were poems—short, messy, often written in bursts of emotion she couldn't explain. Some were angry. Some were soft. Some made no sense at all. But they were hers. Her way of existing, of surviving.
A knock on the door broke her focus.
Before she could answer, the door opened and in stepped a tall man in his early thirties.
He had long, flowing blonde hair tied into a loose ponytail, with strands cascading past his shoulders. His white lab coat was oversized, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A stethoscope hung casually around his neck, and he wore a crisp shirt, gray trousers, and well-polished black shoes.
Dr. Kennedy Mayoki. The physician assigned to her care since the very beginning.
Kennedy: Writing in that diary of yours again?
Kana: (cartoonish expression) It's not a diary! It's just a book where I like to write stuff.
Kennedy: Yeah... that's pretty much what a diary is.
Kana: Huh?! Diaries are for writing about your day and your feelings. I don't do that. I don't like remembering what I feel every single day.
Kennedy: So what do you write in there, then?
Kana opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the page in front of her, then back to previous entries.
She froze.
They were about her feelings. All of them. Even if she hadn't realized it, every line she wrote was soaked in emotion.
A blush crept across her cheeks, and she quickly shut the notebook.
Kana: (stammering) J-just… some poems and stuff. Nothing emotional.
Kennedy: (grinning) Poems with no emotion? I'd love to see that. (extends hand) Come on, let me take a look.
Kana's eyes widened in panic. She hugged the book tightly to her chest, as if it were a sacred relic.
Kana: No! You can't see it!
Kennedy: (smirking) Oh? And why not?
Kana: (nervous laugh) B-because I don't want to bore you with my emotionless poems! Yeah... that's it.
Kennedy: (leaning back) Uh-huh. And I'm supposed to believe that?
Kana: (to herself) Uh oh. (to Kennedy, nervously) What do you mean, Dr. Kennedy?
Kennedy: (chuckles) I think you don't want to show me because your poems do have emotions. And you're too embarrassed to admit it. Your face says it all.
Kana: (cartoonishly) SHUT UP, YOU STUPID DOCTOR!!!
Kennedy burst out laughing, his voice echoing off the hospital walls. He pulled a chair up beside her bed and sat down comfortably, still grinning.
Out of all the doctors who came and went, Kennedy was the only one Kana had grown close to. He talked to her like a person, not a patient. He listened. He joked. And most of all, he never looked at her with pity.
***Kennedy: So, do you want to explain what happened with Ms. Jane this morning?
Kana: You heard?
Kennedy: The whole hospital heard. Why did you say those things to her?
Kana lowered her eyes, shame creeping over her like a shadow. She thought back to the incident earlier that day. Normally, no matter how much the hospital routines annoyed her—how much the nurses pestered or the doctors poked—she never lashed out. She had learned to bottle it up. To swallow it. To pretend she didn't feel anything.
But today was different.
Kana: I… don't know. It just came out. I didn't mean to hurt her.
Kennedy: (sighs) Jane has been trying to be friendly ever since she transferred here two months ago. The least you can do is be nice, you know.
Kana: I know. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to…
Kennedy: (patting her head gently) It's alright. Just make sure you apologize later. I'm sure she knows you didn't mean it.
Kana: (nods slowly)
Kennedy: (exhales) That being said… I think I know why you've been so on edge today.
Kana: You do? How?
Kennedy: It's actually pretty simple. Today's your birthday.
Kana: (blinking) It is?
Kennedy: Yeah. June 14th. I can't believe you forgot your own birthday.
Kana's eyes widened. Everything suddenly made sense—why she felt heavier, why her chest had been tight since morning, why her heart had been brittle like glass just waiting to shatter.
It clicked.
The anger. The sadness. The hollowness.
It wasn't about Jane. Not really.
It was about everything else.
Kana: Why would I keep track? The last four birthdays were the same—empty, meaningless. It's not like I have much time left anyway.
Kennedy: (sighs deeply) There it is again. That negative talk isn't doing you any favors, Kana. You're too young to think this way.
There was silence between them. The sterile hum of hospital lights above. The faint beeping of distant machines down the hall. The kind of silence that made you feel small. Made you feel alone.
Then, quietly…
Kana: Mr. Kennedy… why are you funding my treatment?
Kennedy: (startled) How did you—?
Kana: I always knew someone had to be paying for it, but I never knew who. Then, last week, I overheard some doctors talking. They mentioned something about your name. It got me thinking… why? Why are you doing this? You've put up with me for four years. You've paid for everything—even though the treatments are expensive. Why?
She looked directly at him, her voice no longer fragile, but firm. Direct. Demanding answers she had been too afraid to ask before.
For the first time, Kennedy's warm, composed smile faltered. A flicker of something raw passed across his face—pain, maybe. Or guilt.
He opened his mouth to speak. Hesitated.
Then, he finally answered.
Kennedy: Kana, you might not believe me, but… I understand what you're feeling. The loneliness. The emptiness that lingers when people you love walk away. Feeling like no one really sees you. Like everyone has abandoned you.
Kana didn't respond. She just listened.
Kennedy: That's why I don't want you to give up. You're still a kid. You shouldn't be carrying this weight alone.
Kana: But what's the point? I don't have much time left. And in the end, it won't matter. You'll all move on. You'll forget me. Just like my parents did.
Kennedy: (softly) So, you're afraid of being forgotten?
She hesitated… then nodded slowly.
Kennedy let out a breath, then reached into his coat pocket. From inside, he pulled out a small box wrapped neatly in green foil paper with a red satin ribbon.
He placed it gently in Kana's lap.
Kana: (puzzled) What's this?
Kennedy: A birthday present. Open it.
With trembling fingers, Kana untied the ribbon, peeled back the wrapping, and opened the lid.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
Inside was a phone—the latest model iNOVA 19 Pro Max. Sleek, pristine, and powerful. She'd only seen it in commercials between hospital soap operas and late-night news shows. The idea of ever owning something so current, so new, so… hers—had never even crossed her mind.
Kana: (stunned) A phone? For me? And… an iNOVA?!
She looked up at Kennedy, utterly speechless.
Kennedy: A 'thank you' would be a good start.
Kana: (soft laugh) Thank you… but why a phone?
Kennedy: Because for four years, you've been here. Stuck in this hospital. Alone. There's barely anyone your age here, and I've seen what that kind of isolation does to a person. It eats at you. So… I got you this. So you can connect with people. Make friends. Talk to someone who isn't a nurse or a doctor. If people can't come to you… then maybe you can go to them.
He paused, voice a little softer now.
Kennedy: Honestly, I should've done this sooner. I'm sorry it took me this long.
Kana stared down at the phone, her fingers brushing over the glossy screen.
It was the first gift she had received in years.
But even as excitement tingled at the edge of her chest… something inside her still hesitated. The phone was amazing. The gesture was overwhelming. But would it really change anything?
Kana: I don't know, Mr. Kennedy. Even if I reach out to people… won't they still forget me?
Kennedy: (gently pats her head) Then give them a reason to never forget you.
She looked up at him, uncertain, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
Kennedy: I know your parents hurt you. I know it's hard to trust after something like that. But if you assume that everyone will leave you… you'll push away the ones who would've stayed.
Kana: But… how do I know they'll be different?
Kennedy: You don't. That's part of life. You take the risk. You open the door, even if you're scared. If you're afraid of being forgotten… then leave something behind. Make people want to remember you. Your kindness. Your words. Your presence. It doesn't have to be loud. It just has to be real.
Kana looked down at the phone again.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt… something. A flicker. A spark. Small and fragile, but alive.
Hope.
Kana: Thank you, Mr. Kennedy.
Kennedy: (chuckles) That's more like it. (pauses) Happy birthday, Kana.
He turned to leave.
Kennedy: Oh, and don't forget to apologize to Jane later.
Kana: I will, sir.
Kennedy gave a brief wave as he walked out, never turning back.
Kana sat there, staring at the phone in her lap.
She pressed the power button. The screen came to life in her hands.
And just like that—her journey to be remembered began.