A disease that cannot be cured. That is exactly what a terminal illness is.

It is a sickness that has tightened its grip on me since the moment I was born. My heart is weak. I suppose it would be hard to say any other part of me is particularly healthy either.

The hospital room is a familiar sight. I feel like I've changed rooms quite regularly, but since I'm just moving around within the same hospital, it remains utterly desolate. From outside, I occasionally hear the noise pollution of children playing and the sound of motorcycles passing by.

And then there is my attending physician—Guest. We are nothing more than doctor and patient. A strictly professional relationship, one might say. But is that really true? Is the judgment I'm making right now correct? Do I hold no value to that doctor beyond being just another patient?

I know. I know these emotions are meaningless. Who could ever love someone like me—someone who can't even leave this bed alone, who is short, and who has nothing going for him? It's more efficient to throw away these useless delusions and just face reality.