My body collapses inward, my arms trembling, my breath shaking so hard I nearly fall. The nurse gently pries my hands away and replaces them with hers.
“Go,” she whispers. “We’ve got him.”
But I can’t move. I hover over him, fingers still curled like I’m afraid he’ll vanish the moment I break contact.
“Cass.” The nurse’s voice is firmer. “He’s alive because of you. Let us take it from here.”
Alive.
The word destroys me.
I stumble back, ripping off my gloves, blood splattering tile. My knees hit the floor. My breath comes in shards.
Alive.
He’s alive.
But the terror in my chest is a living thing—because I know how close he was to the dark. How thin the line was. How one less breath, one less beat, one slip of my fingers—and he’d be gone.
I sink outside the OR door, blood drying on my arms, scrubs stiff with it. Machines hum behind steel. Voices rise and fall. Boots thunder past.
Someone gives me water.
Someone else a blanket.
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
Because if I let go—he won’t come back.
Hours blur.
Minutes lie.
The clock on the wall mocks me.
When a surgeon finally steps out—mask down, gloves off, gown streaked red—my heart stops beating.
“Is he?—”
“He’s still with us,” he says gently. “Critical, but holding.”
I fold forward, a sob tearing loose. My forehead touches my knees. My hands shake.
Still with us.
Still here.
Still alive.
“Can I see him?” I whisper, voice barely a breath.
“Not yet.”
It guts me but I nod.
So I wait.
