My life began in her room. I had gone to the hospital with my classmates for a workplace visit organized by school. And I came across that room.

She was sleeping by the window. Her face looked childlike behind the oxygen mask, connecting her to the life support. And, aside from her chest that rose and fell, the rest of her was as still as the bed she was lying in.      

Shiori Shirosaki was her name.      

Her classmates had bullied her in high school, from what I heard. Shiori had tried to kill herself but failed. For five years she had not woken up.      

They say, people tend to like those who are like themselves.

Maybe that’s why I applied to work as a volunteer in that hospital soon after. I visited Shiori in her room when I could. I brought fresh flowers to replace the faded ones. Sometimes I talked to her.      

A year passed.      

“Truth is,” I told her one day, “I’ve never been good at getting along with people either. But because I have known you, I am no longer alone. For the first time in my life, I feel like taking my life seriously. I have worked hard. And I got a scholarship to go to medical school—“

Shiori’s face remained unchanged, except for the fog behind her mask that came and went.      

“Be proud of yourself, Shiori,” I continued. “Because, if one day I succeed in returning to work here, that means you have made a doctor out of me. Thank you for giving me a reason to live my best life, Shiori. Thank you for letting me be with you.”      

That day, Shiori woke up.