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Description
I visited the hospital as I do every week. The day I go is a Monday. To some people, Monday is the worst day of the week, it marks the start of work or school, the start to a hard day's labour after rest. A majority of suicides even occur on Mondays. It's quite funny; the start becomes the end for some people. I guess it's like a cycle of sorts.
To be quite honest, I'm not the smartest of people, I'm not the best of people either; I've done things I regret, but Mondays fix that. Mondays make it feel like I have a reason to live: a reason to smile. Why? It is simply because my visit of the hospital is to visit someone: someone who is the light of the world in my eyes. Someone who makes me feel wanted, of use and most of all: loved.

She's not really anything special, she's just sick. It's one of those things everybody knows about. She never gets to go outside much because of it. To be honest, I don't even know what's wrong with her fully. I hear the mumbles of doctors sometimes but I never ask her about it. I come here to visit her, not to make her sad.

The way she greets me with a smile is like the breeze on a summer's day. The weight of the world is brushed from my shoulders and I feel relaxed. I can't help but smile back, it's contagious. She would then shuffle herself into a comfortable sitting position whilst gesturing to the chair beside her bed. Her stack of books at the end of the bed seemed to both grow and shrink depending on the time of year. In winter she read a lot, in summer, I suppose she spent most of the time looking out of the window.

The chair isn't very comfortable, it's a simple wooden chair, and I'd prefer something a bit more cushioned, but like I said, I'm here to visit her. It's not like she can do much about the chair, besides, after a while, my rear is too numb and I'm too happy to care.
She yawned and I asked if she was tired. She told me she would not be able to sleep anyway and not to worry about her. I resigned my worry after her smile assured me of her well-being. Her bright eyes dazzled me in the light of the hospital ceiling. My dazed blink was somewhat like escaping a daydream. She let out a small laugh in bewilderment and my expression. Soon, I too was laughing.

She noticed the lead stains on my finger tip. She asked if I'd been drawing again. Drawing was a kind of hobby of mine. She always helped me with my drawings. I asked if she drew. She would shake her head and tell me even if she did, hers would be nothing compared to mine. No matter how much I argued playfully, she would never give in. It was as if she was certain my drawings were the best.

We talked about my day, her day was usually the same, and her entire week was never much different. She would tell me about books and beg me to read certain ones. She'd been begging me to read one novel for a while, but I was too lazy to read it. I had exams and stuff going on.

Our idle chat lead us into the late evening, I was always tired around now and fell asleep quite a lot. I'd wake up an hour or so later and she'd giggle at me for falling asleep. She was too polite to wake me. When it started to get late, I would leave: until next Monday.

One Monday, I went just as I did normally. To my surprise, she was not in the bed. It wasn't unheard of, she sometimes was moved rooms, things like this happened; I was used to it. The chair was still there which was odd; usually they took the chair when they moved her room. I noticed something on the chair. I walked over to it, maybe she had forgotten something.

On the wooden chair was a half used pencil, a sketch book and a novel. I was confused. I hadn't left a sketchbook behind, had I? I picked it up and opened the first page, it was me: asleep. There was a drawing of me in this book. Every page, a different yet same sleeping me. Each one was dated and signed…signed by her. The drawings were perfect. It shocked me. They were so detailed and I could not believe the talent. That's when I picked up the pencil.

I gave her a pencil once to try and get her to start drawing, there was no mistake that this was the same pencil. Used well too: used to draw me in my sleep. Every time I fell asleep after giving her that pencil, every time captured in a sketch so detailed and perfect it made my own drawings look like a toddler's.

I was lost. What on earth was going on? Did she leave it here on purpose? Was she too shy to just show me them? Sounds like her. I was amazed at her talent; I just had to praise her. I also had to ask why she only had pictures of me if she was so good at drawing.
I picked up the novel. I think this was the one she wanted me to read. Was this another subtle hint? I couldn't remember the title well so it probably was. I opened it up anyway since it was already in my hands. Something was written on the inside cover.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it today. I really wanted another Monday. You visiting me was the best thing to happen to me lately. When you went, I'd miss you, when you came back, I had to hide my happiness sometimes.

I used the pencil you gave me. Sorry I never told you. I didn't think you'd keep falling asleep if you knew I'd draw you. I hope the drawings are okay. They're yours now. So is this. I'm sorry.

In all the times you visited me, you never asked what was wrong with me. I guess the simple explanation is that my heart is broken. The doctor's couldn't fix it and said I should stay in the hospital.

Don't be sad though, as much as my heart was broken, every visit you made helped to fix it. I learned that as much as something is broken, it can be fixed. It may not have been in the way we both hoped, but I felt better than I ever did thanks to you.
Even though I'm gone, please keep showing me your drawings. You can use my pencil if you like; it's a good pencil. The book is good too. I hope you like it. Thank you. And I'm sorry."

Tears began to fall from my eyes, leaving their trails down my cheeks. I turned the book over to read the blurb. It was about a boy being a hero to a girl. I saw my name. My sadness mixed with confusion. I looked at the front of the book again. "My Hero"…a book by the girl I visited every Monday. A book by the girl I will never get to visit again.
The cycle had ended.

Description
I visited the hospital as I do every week. The day I go is a Monday. To some people, Monday is the worst day of the week, it marks the start of work or school, the start to a hard day's labour after rest. A majority of suicides even occur on Mondays. It's quite funny; the start becomes the end for some people. I guess it's like a cycle of sorts.
To be quite honest, I'm not the smartest of people, I'm not the best of people either; I've done things I regret, but Mondays fix that. Mondays make it feel like I have a reason to live: a reason to smile. Why? It is simply because my visit of the hospital is to visit someone: someone who is the light of the world in my eyes. Someone who makes me feel wanted, of use and most of all: loved.

She's not really anything special, she's just sick. It's one of those things everybody knows about. She never gets to go outside much because of it. To be honest, I don't even know what's wrong with her fully. I hear the mumbles of doctors sometimes but I never ask her about it. I come here to visit her, not to make her sad.

The way she greets me with a smile is like the breeze on a summer's day. The weight of the world is brushed from my shoulders and I feel relaxed. I can't help but smile back, it's contagious. She would then shuffle herself into a comfortable sitting position whilst gesturing to the chair beside her bed. Her stack of books at the end of the bed seemed to both grow and shrink depending on the time of year. In winter she read a lot, in summer, I suppose she spent most of the time looking out of the window.

The chair isn't very comfortable, it's a simple wooden chair, and I'd prefer something a bit more cushioned, but like I said, I'm here to visit her. It's not like she can do much about the chair, besides, after a while, my rear is too numb and I'm too happy to care.
She yawned and I asked if she was tired. She told me she would not be able to sleep anyway and not to worry about her. I resigned my worry after her smile assured me of her well-being. Her bright eyes dazzled me in the light of the hospital ceiling. My dazed blink was somewhat like escaping a daydream. She let out a small laugh in bewilderment and my expression. Soon, I too was laughing.

She noticed the lead stains on my finger tip. She asked if I'd been drawing again. Drawing was a kind of hobby of mine. She always helped me with my drawings. I asked if she drew. She would shake her head and tell me even if she did, hers would be nothing compared to mine. No matter how much I argued playfully, she would never give in. It was as if she was certain my drawings were the best.

We talked about my day, her day was usually the same, and her entire week was never much different. She would tell me about books and beg me to read certain ones. She'd been begging me to read one novel for a while, but I was too lazy to read it. I had exams and stuff going on.

Our idle chat lead us into the late evening, I was always tired around now and fell asleep quite a lot. I'd wake up an hour or so later and she'd giggle at me for falling asleep. She was too polite to wake me. When it started to get late, I would leave: until next Monday.

One Monday, I went just as I did normally. To my surprise, she was not in the bed. It wasn't unheard of, she sometimes was moved rooms, things like this happened; I was used to it. The chair was still there which was odd; usually they took the chair when they moved her room. I noticed something on the chair. I walked over to it, maybe she had forgotten something.

On the wooden chair was a half used pencil, a sketch book and a novel. I was confused. I hadn't left a sketchbook behind, had I? I picked it up and opened the first page, it was me: asleep. There was a drawing of me in this book. Every page, a different yet same sleeping me. Each one was dated and signed…signed by her. The drawings were perfect. It shocked me. They were so detailed and I could not believe the talent. That's when I picked up the pencil.

I gave her a pencil once to try and get her to start drawing, there was no mistake that this was the same pencil. Used well too: used to draw me in my sleep. Every time I fell asleep after giving her that pencil, every time captured in a sketch so detailed and perfect it made my own drawings look like a toddler's.

I was lost. What on earth was going on? Did she leave it here on purpose? Was she too shy to just show me them? Sounds like her. I was amazed at her talent; I just had to praise her. I also had to ask why she only had pictures of me if she was so good at drawing.
I picked up the novel. I think this was the one she wanted me to read. Was this another subtle hint? I couldn't remember the title well so it probably was. I opened it up anyway since it was already in my hands. Something was written on the inside cover.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it today. I really wanted another Monday. You visiting me was the best thing to happen to me lately. When you went, I'd miss you, when you came back, I had to hide my happiness sometimes.

I used the pencil you gave me. Sorry I never told you. I didn't think you'd keep falling asleep if you knew I'd draw you. I hope the drawings are okay. They're yours now. So is this. I'm sorry.

In all the times you visited me, you never asked what was wrong with me. I guess the simple explanation is that my heart is broken. The doctor's couldn't fix it and said I should stay in the hospital.

Don't be sad though, as much as my heart was broken, every visit you made helped to fix it. I learned that as much as something is broken, it can be fixed. It may not have been in the way we both hoped, but I felt better than I ever did thanks to you.
Even though I'm gone, please keep showing me your drawings. You can use my pencil if you like; it's a good pencil. The book is good too. I hope you like it. Thank you. And I'm sorry."

Tears began to fall from my eyes, leaving their trails down my cheeks. I turned the book over to read the blurb. It was about a boy being a hero to a girl. I saw my name. My sadness mixed with confusion. I looked at the front of the book again. "My Hero"…a book by the girl I visited every Monday. A book by the girl I will never get to visit again.
The cycle had ended.