Before Paris' accident, I thought I understood how Ally felt after Jack killed himself in A Star is Born. I shuddered at the mere consideration of losing Paris, unable to imagine my life without him. Every time I catch a glimpse of his smiling face, dotted with freckles and framed by adorable black curls, I feel at peace. Paris is my refuge. Prior to meeting him, I didn't plan on coming out of the closet. It seemed easier to hide behind relationships with women than explore my true feelings. Yet once I met Paris, everything changed. He helped me realize that if I wasn't being my true self, then I wasn't really living. And if I had to, I was willing to give up everything for him. I'm still willing to give up everything for him.

Now, sitting in this dimly lit hospital room, wondering whether or not Paris will wake up from the coma he's been trapped in for six days, I truly understand how Ally felt. I may lose Paris for forever, and that possibility paralyzes me. Paris haunts my mind and there's no way to remedy my fear that I'm going to wake up in the middle of the night to find Paris' cold body lying in that wretched hospital bed, the doctors and nurses assuring me that they did everything they could to try and save him.

Vanessa says we can't think like that. We need to stay strong. Not just for ourselves, but also for Paris. He needs us to be there for him, more than ever. She says we should all do something to remind him we're here, waiting for him to return. At first, I seemed skeptical to the whole idea, but, at this point, I'm desperate enough to try anything.

I never got the chance to sing to Paris. The two of us would sing along to songs, but I'd never sing by myself. He probably doesn't even know that I can sing, or maybe he does. All I know is that, right now, the best way I can express my presence is through a song.

When I was younger, my dad bought me an acoustic guitar for Christmas. It was absolutely stunning, made from dark ebony wood with a glossy marble aquamarine front. The following year, my dad gave me guitar lessons. In high school, my dad was a bit of a hippie, a laidback music man who traversed New York City playing at obscure clubs and quaint parks. Over time, I became pretty good at it, partaking in guitar club during middle school. However, once high school rolled around, I became infatuated with photography and realized it was my passion. Occasionally my dad and I strum a song or two together, but he's definitely much more skilled than me. Some nights, my dad takes out his guitar, the same one he's had since his high school days, and strums a soft romantic melody, singing along with his smooth vocals. It always entrances my mom, reminding her of the days when she would frequent those obscure clubs to catch a glimpse of him playing. I thought someday I could play my guitar for Paris, back when I assumed we had all the time in the world. Now, with the future uncertain, I at least want to strum him one song before he...

***

For the first time in six days, I leave the hospital to pick up my guitar, hoping my parents don't lecture me for missing school. They must understand that being with Paris is more important than being at school. Besides, I wouldn't be able to concentrate at school, too focused on Paris.

As I pull into the driveway, my dad opens the front door and ushers me inside. His nurturing smile quickly turns into a concerned frown, and his arms catch me before I fall. I bury my face into his sweater, the tears pouring from my eyes before I even realize I'm sobbing. All the anguish buried deep down is finally erupting at the surface. The weigh of these past few days comes crashing down all at once, yet I still can't breathe a sigh of relief. All I can do is hope that Paris will wake up, or I may cry until all of Santa Barbara is underwater.

My dad holds tight to my shivering figure, rubbing his hands against my back as I heave in between uncontrollable wails. Eventually, I manage to calm down, using my dad as an anchor to keep me from collapsing. With a soft pat on the back, he suggests I take a shower. I manage a nod, too shaken to speak without producing more tears.

Once inside my bathroom, I strip out of my musty clothes and take off my glasses. It's easier to wear them instead of putting in and taking out my contacts at the hospital. Once the water warms up, I hop under the shower head, letting the heat alleviate my chills and open my nostrils. For the next few minutes, I lather soap on my left shoulder until it's covered in suds and I finally realize that I've neglected to clean the rest of my body. Shaking myself out of the chance, I finish cleaning myself before rinsing away all the turmoil of these past six days, unable to wash away the sterile smell of Paris' hospital room or the area of returning there to see my boyfriend still comatose.

After drying myself off and wrapping a towel around my waist, I exit the bathroom and enter my bedroom, where my mom is sitting on my bed. My mom flashes a sympathetic tight-lipped smile and opens her mouth to speak, but I hold my hand up to stop her.

"Mom, I have to go back and nothing you say or do will stop me."

"I know," she says with an exasperated sigh. I'm pleasantly surprised by her response. She pats the duvet, prompting me to sit beside her. I turn to her, noticing the prominent violet circles under her eyes. It appears I'm not the only one losing sleep.

"I contacted all your teachers. They already knew about Paris'," she pauses, "accident. They're giving you extensions on all your work. I'm not keen on you missing school, but I can't imagine being there instead of being with the one you love."

She turns to me and I muster a quick, albeit authentic, smile. I rest my head on her shoulder and she runs her long, thin fingers through my wet blond tresses.

"Here - I packed you some toiletries, changes of clothes, your charger, some snacks, a blanket, and a pillow."

My mom hands me the duffel bag and kisses me on the cheek before leaving my bedroom, allowing me to get dressed before I make my way back to the hospital.

On my way downstairs, duffel bag in hand, my dad hands me my guitar case and walks me out to my truck. As I back out of the driveway, he waves goodbye and I'm back on my own, wishing there was something packed in that duffel bag that could wake Paris up.

***

My hand shakes while I settle my guitar on my lap, nestling my fingers delicately atop the strings. Paris' dad and Vanessa watch from across the room, curious to hear what I'm about to play. It seems strange to see Paris' dad interested in his life, especially when he couldn't seem to care before. Maybe Paris' accident was the wake-up call his dad needed to make their house a home again.

Consumed with nervousness, my voice falters as I attempt to sing the first note. Eventually, I catch my footing and continue the song, hoping Paris can hear every word I sing.

"It's a little bit funny this feeling inside/I'm not one of those who can easily hide, I/Don't have much money but boy if I did/I'd buy a big house where we both could live"

"If I was a sculptor, but then again no/Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show/Oh I know it's not much but it's the best I can do/My gift is my song/And this one's for you"

"And you can tell everybody this is your song/It may be quite simple but now that it's done/I hope you don't mind/I hope you don't mind/That I put down in words/How wonderful life is while you're in the world"

"I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss/Well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross/But the sun's been quite kind/While I wrote this song/It's for people like you that/Keep it turned on"

"So excuse me forgetting/But these things I do/You see I've forgotten/If they're green or they're blue/Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean/Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen"

"And you can tell everybody this is your song/It may be quite simple but now that it's done/I hope you don't mind/I hope you don't mind/That I put down in words/How wonderful life is while you're in the world"

"I hope you don't mind/I hope you don't mind/That I put down in words/How wonderful life is while you're in the world"

I mean every word I sing. My rendition is messy and weepy. I start to cry toward the end, but I keep singing, fumbling my way through the entire song. I want Paris to hear it. I want it to wake him up so that I can hold him and never let him go. I want to spend every single moment of the rest of our lives together. This can't be the end for us.

"I don't think I could ever love someone as much as I love you, Paris."

I need him to wake up.

Paris, wake up.