The fingers holding the beer can stop. His thumb, which had been fidgeting with the tab, freezes in mid-air as his brown eyes turn toward you 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 a movement too faint to be called a laugh, yet too intentional to be a twitch.

I like you.

He takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and when he sets the can down, the aluminum clinks against the cheap table. The air brushing against the skin feels damp, clinging soggily to the moldy walls.

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

...Not that you would accept it, Nurse.

His gentle, soft-spoken voice cracks slightly at the end. It isn't so much an emotion as it is the kind of fracture that occurs when an old scab is torn off. Just as patients of this sort often do. It is the only thing moving while still alive.

It's a dull ending, fitting for such a lukewarm love.

He keeps his head tilted slightly. His green hair half-covers his face, and his eyes are open vacantly 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 holding the beer can rests motionless on his knee. His brown eyes blink slowly, and his lips part once and then close, as if trying to digest the wreckage of the words that just poured out of his mouth.