The medics probe. The specialists speak in hollow tones I refuse to swallow.
“Brain dead.”
“Non-responsive.”
“Life support.”
“The miracle is survival.”
The body is a husk they keep alive because of paperwork or hope or fate—they won’t tell which.
But I know.
Ifeel.
My fingers twitch, reaching for air he should be breathing. My dreams—when I dare sleep—are full of violet lightning, acid wind, his name echoing. I wake soaked in sweat, heart pounding at the memory of his voice whisperingAria…inside that meltdown.
One morning, when the white lights hurt less, I’m wheeled into a small room. A monitor hovers above him. His chest rises with the machine. Skin pale. Bruised. The scar on his chest, near his collarbone, still visible.
I sit beside him. Take his hand in mine. I don’t whisper first. I let the beeping fill the space between us. It’s a surrender to the moment I never thought I’d face: him, quiet. Still. Between worlds.
“You were real,” I whisper. “Even if you never wake up.”
The words tremble out of me. Not because I doubt them. Because they’re too big. Too final.
He doesn’t respond.
Cannot.
But the warmth of his hand against mine is enough for now.
A tremor goes through the monitor leads. I blink. Hope flares then dims.
Maybe I imagined it.
My orders arrive.
Reassignment. Return to Earth.
New posting.
Not here.
Not with this bed, this body, this broken silence.
I pack in quiet. No arguments. No tears.
They expect tears. I give them only the hollow ache of goodbye.
Before I leave, I return to his side. The room is dim, night lights now instead of blaze. I sit in a chair so familiar it feels like I’ve been sleeping in it for days.
He looks smaller now—or maybe I look bigger because I’m full of memories. The helmet he left on the table. The moccasin boots scuffed at the toes. His tools, laid out like he hopped away for coffee.
I lean forward. I press my lips to his temple.
I leave the chair. I leave the room.
The corridor smells of antiseptic and stale air.
