The room smells of chicken soup. My hands smell of soap. The darkness beyond the curtains deters exactly no one. We are all here; tubes, medicines and all. You wanted soup and mangoes and the doctors said no. But I got them anyway. I am a rebel. For all the right reasons.

The room smells of something unpleasant and your face looks vapid. You reach out and hold my hand. "Give me a smoke." You say and I say no but you beg me and I turn away and cry while looking at the sky from the window. Because my rebel streak has ended. Because I want you to live but I also want you to die happy and I can't have both and I can't have either.

The room reeks of anxiety. And then it reeks of grief. There's nothing in between.

There are whiffs of you when I pack your things. Your perfume and the yellowing copy of Great Gatsby you were reading.

Then there's nothing. The room is filled with what is left when everything is gone.