Then he kicked off his own shoes, climbed onto the bed beside me, and pulled the covers over both of us.
We lay there in the dark, not quite touching. I could hear him breathing, could feel the warmth of him inches away. The headache pulsed behind my eyes, but I ignored it. There were more important things than pain.
“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice came out rough in the darkness. “You know that, right?”
He didn’t answer for so long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, softly, he said, “Neither am I.”
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something.
I reached for his hand in the darkness and found it waiting for me.
He held on like he was afraid to let go.
I watched the shadows on the ceiling, felt his pulse beating against my fingers, and knew that neither of us was going to sleep tonight.
Some things couldn’t be fixed with rest. Some things just had to be survived.
We were going to survive this. Together.
Even if it broke us both to do it.
21
TANNER
I moved through the darkness like I’d trained for it, which I supposed I had. Years of learning to navigate without turning on lights, without making noise, without disturbing someone whose brain couldn’t tolerate stimulation. I knew the exact distance from the bathroom to the kitchen, how to open the refrigerator without letting the light spill into the hallway, which floorboards creaked, and which ones held my weight in silence.
Seth was sleeping. Finally sleeping, after that first endless night and two more days of waking every few hours in confusion, his eyes unfocused and frightened until he found my face. The doctor said that was normal. That his brain needed rest, that the fog would clear, that he’d be fine.
Fine.
I set the ibuprofen bottle on the counter and counted the pills. Eighteen left. He could have two every six hours, which meant I needed to pick up more tomorrow. I wrote it on the notebook I’d started keeping by the coffee maker—a list that grew longer every day. Meds. Sunglasses in case he needs to go outside. Replace ice packs in freezer. Help him email his professors.
The notebook was covered in my handwriting now, cramped and urgent. I’d written down everything the doctor said, everything the discharge papers recommended, every symptom to watch for, and every warning sign that meant we needed to go back to the hospital.
Increased confusion. Slurred speech. Seizures. One pupil larger than the other.
I checked Seth’s pupils three times a day, holding a penlight I’d bought at CVS up to his face while he blinked at me in tired confusion. He let me do it without complaint. Probably didn’t even understand why I needed to.
I rinsed my hands in the kitchen sink, cold water shocking against my skin. Two-thirty in the morning. He’d taken his last dose at midnight, which meant I had until six to sleep, except I knew I wouldn’t. The anxiety had settled into my bones like a low-grade fever, keeping me alert even when exhaustion dragged at my eyelids.
This was what I knew how to do. This was who I was.
I’d gotten good at it, once. Tracking medications and doctors’ appointments, managing symptoms and anticipating needs. I’d spent years perfecting the rhythm of caretaking—the vigilance, the preparation, the constant assessment of whether today was a good day or a bad day. Whether the person I loved was getting better or worse.
But I also knew how that story ended.
By morning, Seth was awake and asking for coffee.
“Just water,” I said, setting a glass on the nightstand. “Caffeine can make headaches worse.”
He made a face but didn’t argue. The light from the hallway cut a thin stripe across the carpet, carefully angled away from his eyes. I’d closed every blind in the apartment, kept the lights off except when absolutely necessary. The darkness made the space feel smaller, more intimate. Safer, maybe.
Or maybe just familiar.
“What time is it?” His voice was rough with sleep, and I watched him squint at the ceiling like he was trying to remember something.
“Around eight. How’s your head?”
