“Ok. We will come back in the morning,” David says, relenting, the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally crushing his shoulders.
I hug them both and am truly grateful to have them.
* * *
The ICU is a world of sound.Beep... beep... beep.The rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the ventilator. The low hum of fluids being pumped.
I wash my hands and put on an isolation gown, my movements mechanical. I am delaying the moment. I am terrified of what I will see.
I take a deep breath, push the curtain aside, and step in.
My breath hitches in a sob I barely suppress. I have to grab the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself.
Dorian.
He looks... small. The man who fills every room with his presence, whose energy is a force of nature, looks utterly diminished against the starkwhite sheets. A thick tube is taped to his mouth, breathing for him. Wires are stuck to his chest, his arms, his fingers.
He was always the strong one and seeing him like this—still and silent—feels wrong.
A tear escapes, hot and fast, tracking down my cheek. I wipe the tear away and pull the chair close to the bed, and sit. I reach through the tangle of wires and take his hand. It’s big and warm. Familiar.
"I'm here," I whisper, my voice trembling but gaining strength with every word. "I’m right here."
He doesn't move. The machine hisses in reply, pumping air into his chest.
"I’ll wait for you, my love,” I squeeze his hand, careful of the IV port. "Just don't take too long, okay?"
The mechanical sounds are just too much to bear now. I need to drown out the beeping and the hissing.
I pull out my phone and open the playlist created with all the songs he sent me over the last few weeks. I set the volume low, letting the melody bleed into the sterile quiet. “Our” song plays first, the familiar notes immediately pushing the tension from my shoulders.
Then, I open our chat history and scroll through the poems he sent.
"I always knew you were the poetic type," I say, a watery smile touching my lips as I look at his sleeping face. "From the first time we met, I knew there was a poet’s soul hidden under those suits and hard glare."
I lean closer, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. His skin is fever-hot, damp. I kiss his knuckles, pressing them against my cheek.
"Thank you," I whisper, the tears falling freely now, but soft tears, healing tears. "For waiting, for understanding, for accepting. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for being in my life.”
I stand next to his bed and move his hand lower, just for a second, pressing his large palm gently against my flat belly.
"I have something… important to tell you," I promise him, my voice soft. "But I need to look you in the eyes when I tell you. So, fight, Dorian. Fight for us."
* * *
Dorian
There is no time here. There is only the Cold. It wraps around me like heavy velvet, pulling me down, down, down. It’s peaceful in the dark.
There is no pain here. No burning in my side. No noise. Just a long, endless drift into silence.
Let go,the darkness whispers.You are tired. You have fought enough.
I’m tired. My bones feel like lead. It would be so easy to stop. To just... sink.
But then, I hear it.
A voice. A vibration that cuts through the water. Her voice.
