My tears are soaking the pillow, and my voice is shaking.
“Let’s give her some time with him,” Ben says, gesturing for the others to leave.
Alone with Art, I hold him close, careful not to move him.
“You have to be okay, Art. You aren’t allowed to leave me. I never knew what love was until I met all of you, and I don’t know how I will survive with you. I love you. I love you endlessly, and I will never give up on you,” I whisper against his ear.
“Please don’t give up. Fight to come back to us. Fight to come back to me.”
The doctor does come back that evening and uses a device strapped to Art’s head to scan his brain. He reassures us that he’s okay and all we can do is wait.
So I wait.
I wait, and I sit with him, and I speak to him.
I tell him what he means to me and that I can’t live without him.
I talk to him every day for two days, terrified that he will never wake up.
At the end of the second day, the doctor removes the drain, explaining that there is no more swelling, which is a good sign.
“But he’s still in a coma?” I whimper.
“We have to wait,” he tells me again.
I bite my lip, wanting to scream at him that I’ve waited enough, and I just want Artur back. But it won’t do any good.
When I’m alone with Art again, I tell him a story about a princess who met a prince, and he taught her about love. I told him he is my prince and he’s the one I love. And I will never stop loving him.
I fall asleep on his bed with my hand on his chest because his breathing reassures me. The soft rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that Artur is still here with us.
It’s very early morning when my eyes flicker open in a dark room.
I swear I just felt him move.
“Art?” I mutter quickly. Sitting up, I flick on the bedside lamp.
“Art?” I say again, not willing to accept that I imagined it.
“Baby bird?” he murmurs, his words dry and scratching.
“Art!” I yelp, every cell in my body screaming with relief.
He chuckles, then groans and touches his head.
“You were in a coma,” I blurt out.
He touches his throat. “Sorry, water, yes,” I mutter, grabbing the glass of water on the bedside table and lifting his head slowly so I can press it to his lips. He takes three small, slow sips, then rests his head down again.
“A coma?” he whispers, closing his eyes. He breathes softly.
“Are you okay? I never left your side. I was so scared,” I tell him.
“I heard you, princess,” he smiles.
“You could hear me?”
“I heard everything.”
