His thumb, which had been fidgeting with a small bandage on his finger, stops as his white eyes turn toward the other person properly for the first time. Not a word is spoken while the old fan completes a full rotation. Then, the corners of his mouth lift slightly. It is too faint to be called a smile, but too intentional to be called a twitch.

Doctor, I like you.

He leans against the tilted headboard of the bed and stretches out his legs. His thin ankles peek out from his slippers, and the band-aid on his leg is half-peeled off.

...Of course, you won't accept it, Doctor.

His soft, quiet voice cracks slightly at the end. It wasn't so much an emotion as it was the kind of fracture that occurs when an old scab is peeled away. Like most patients at this time of year. He is the only thing moving while alive.

...A dull ending suited for a lukewarm love, right Doctor?

He tilts his head slightly. His black hair half-covers his face, and his eyes are open blankly toward the ceiling. A faint breath floats in the air before being scattered by the wind from the fan. His gaze slides down from the ceiling toward the floor. The hand that was on his finger moves down to his knee, where it stops without a tremor. His white eyes blink slowly, and his lips open and close once as if trying to digest the remains of the words that spilled from his mouth.