To me, you are still that little boy who told me I was your best friend.

I don't fucking care that you have grown to be four or seven or however many fucking feet taller than me, have muscles that allow you to do things that I now can't. I really could give a shit that you survived hell and beyond, that you can fix cars and do push-ups with no sweat. You can roll your eyes at me and pick me up all you want, but in my own fucking mind, you are still that little boy who told me you loved me.

Bad choice on your part, really.

How is it that you can be so smart but such a dumbass at the same time?

It's Thursday. The hospital called today. About you.

When you didn't come home the time you usually do, I didn't really care. Except for the fact that I actually fucking did. I told myself that you were just stuck in traffic, you were talking to someone at work, you stopped somewhere to help fucking rescue kittens or old ladies- everything and anything. I tried to avoid the fact that maybe it was this.

You would've laughed at me if you'd seen the way I was pacing all over the house. I might have been crabbier than usual. There also is a chair leg that might have broken.

The doctor tells me it was a semi-trailer that hit your car.

The police tell me it wasn't your fault- fuck them, I knew that. You always drive so goddamn careful. There was no way it was your fault. Had there been photographic evidence saying it was your fault, I still would have gone to my fucking grave in denial.

I would volunteer to kill the bastard that hit you, but I know you wouldn't like that.

I don't want to hold your hand, because I'm kind of embarrassed that other people will see, that they'll see me here, showing how much I really don't want you to go- you know how I fucking hate showing so much emotion. I don't want to put our fingers together because that means I'll have to remember all the other times we held hands and that if you really do leave me alone I'll have to face the fact that we won't be holding hands anymore. And shit- that fucking just terrifies me.

I'm sorry I told you to stop grabbing my hand and told you I hated when you "got too fucking physical" all those times.

I'm so sorry- I really actually didn't mind it. Hell, who cares- I liked it. I really did.

Fine. I'm giving in and holding your hand anyways. If I just don't look anywhere but at you, I won't know who sees and who doesn't. It kind of hurts looking at you though, because I can see your eyes that are shut instead of looking at me. You have the look of death instead of smiling and joking with me. I am half expecting you to all of a sudden open your eyes and find out you just pulled some sort of sick prank. But I know you would never do that to me.

I'm going to fucking kill you if you die here.

Please wake up.

There are tubes running all over the place. There was a time I thought running needles into people's skin was pretty damn awesome, but right now, seeing this IV stuck into your vein, I can only feel sick. I guess because it means you're in some serious shit right now. The doctor didn't have an answer for me when I asked when you'd wake up. She just sort of murmured something about, "soon," and fuck, maybe soon means in a week, maybe it means in a month.

What the fuck does soon mean in hospital speech?

Andy, you can't die on me. You survived all the hell I ever gave you- how fucking lame would it be that a semi-trailer was what cut your cord?

Please don't leave me.