I wake up next to you and you're sitting in that armchair next to me. With what feels like a million cables and wires attached to every part of my body, I see your face, so solemn in the darkness. The first rays of the sun shine through the blinds and you still haven't noticed I'm awake, though I may not be so sure if I was either. I feel nothing, I am nothing and over the years I knew you felt nothing anymore, too. I can feel you coming closer, still not sure if I was awake or not, looking at me, breathing near me, touching me. I try to say something and I just can't; no words come out as if your gaze pierces my own thoughts before they could be formed. Surrounded by that white room, you color me red, you bruise me, you squeeze the light from my eyes, over and over. You force yourself on me for the last time. I am still not sure if I was awake or not, and in that moment, for the first and last time, I see your smile. I am so glad I could see your smile. I am so glad you could love me for the last time. I am so glad I could be useful one last time.