Two hours have been gone since they took the girl from my arms. Another man in white calls my name from the other side of the room, but when I get there his words are meaningless because I understand nothing about medicine.
         You must be thinking why this man is speaking medical terms to someone who can't even see blood. Well, a woman has asked my profession before and I lied saying I was a heart surgeon; and I also lied about being Charlotte's Best Friend. Wish my brother were here, he understands everything about medical stuff (that handsome & genius boy).
It is inevitable not to worry about Charlotte. Now, every closed door we pass makes a new tie in my stomach. Hope she is okay and her arm is good again... Fortunately there is a doctor by my side and he can help if I fall, right?
Suddenly I hit myself on the doctor's back, who has stopped abruptly without checking if I was paying attention to his movements.
         He smiles friendly and nods to a brown but clean door, a piece of wood separating me from that girl.
- ...Charlotte? - I push the door slowly. It makes a low sound of rust. My father used to put oil in all our doors that made this noise.
- Louis?!
       She is lying on the bed brushing her hair; her face is pale, with 2 dark circles under the eyes, and there are machines around her; one of them has a plastic bag full of blood connected to a very thin tube that meets her arm at the place inside the elbow. She is receiving someone else's blood, probably.
       - A-are you alright? - My voice sounds hoarsely weird. She stops with the hairbrush and watches me in a curious but concerned way.
      - Oh my god, Louis... - Charlotte begins but changes her mind in the middle of the phrase  - ...Thank you...
       I notice her cheeks are no longer pale, and oddly I feel mine to redden too! I walk into the room and sit on the edge of her bed; she shrugs her legs beneath the sheets to leave more space for me. Her eyes are brighter than the hole sun and this makes she look beautiful.
It's time to ask.
- Charlotte?
She cleans an imaginary dirty on her pillow, a little uncomfortable.
- Yes?
I reduce my voice to a low whisper, this time not in a hoarse way.
- Who are you?

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