I should know what s happening but, for some reason, I don t.

I m receiving pity smiles and guilty letters and flowers, but I don t know what they re for. The only thing I know for sure is that my name is Jordan Jordana and I m sitting in a hospital. Someone is sitting next to the bed; gentle sobs pealing from their voice. My mom pats my leg through the hospital s comforter that covers my skin. I don t feel it, but I see the motion and I know what it s supposed to feel like. I want to panic and I tell my body that it s supposed to panic, but it disobeys me and keeps me calm and mellow. I don t know much besides the fact that I m dying, but it s enough to send endless tears down my mom s usually rosy cheeks. Her eyes are focused on me and I stare back. Our stares seem to last for eternity before I find myself lost in sleep. I can feel a kiss being pressed to my forehead before the room is cleared of any other breathing except my own. My eyes open, watching the door intensely. My voice feels stolen and I throat feels like it hasn t spoken in weeks. My body feels too weak to function on its own and I begin to suspect that the complex nest of tubes and wires are there to keep me operating. My eyes feel swollen and they seem to be thumping to the beat of my heart. If the monitor wasn t projecting the slow beeps of my pulse, I wouldn t be sure if I was still alive. On top of feeling absolutely destroyed, it was raining outside. My nurse walks inside, her head tucked down as if she doesn t want to make eye contact with me. She walks to the side of my bed where a few wires and machines sit, complicatedly intertwined with each other. I watch her jerked movements as she presses a few buttons. Without even a simple smile, she hurries out of the room, never acknowledging that I exist. And as doctors and nurses filed in over the next hours, poking at the machines and adjusting the wires, none of them seemed to see me, as if I were invisible. I looked pass me to see out the window, commenting to themselves about how horrible the whether had gotten, but never did they try to strike a conversation with me. They all kept their heads down, or at least shielded their eyes so they never met mine, as they worked. They stumble on their own hands when I make the smallest of sounds. They seem to be set on finishing their job before scattering out of my room like a scared chihuahua. I can t help worrying what I did wrong. That was me, finding a way to blame myself for everything. Eventually, I don t remember exactly when, I gave up, turning to my side and peering out the window, questioning my own existence.