Around midnight, exhaustion makes me honest.
"I lied," I tell her unconscious form. "I woke up with you in my arms and I was terrified. Because you felt right. Because holding you felt like finally living again. And that scared me more than anything."
She doesn't stir. The ventilator breathes for her.
"Days, Sonya. It took days for you to crawl inside my chest and make a home there. Elena took years. Years of courtship, persuasion, building something. But you—" My voice cracks.
"I wrote that note because admitting the truth meant I could lose you. And I've spent fifteen years knowing exactly what that loss feels like. The hollow emptiness. The rage with nowhere to go. The way every surface becomes a memorial because you can't stop calling the name of someone who's gone. So I pushed you away."
The confession hangs in the sterile air.
"I can't lose another ballerina," I whisper. "Can't bury another woman I love. So wake up, Sonya. Wake up and fight. Wake up and let me tell you to your face that I love you."
Monday arrives slowly.
Dawn light filters through the hospital blinds. Dr. Murayama checks vitals at 6 AM, adjusts medications, nods with cautious optimism.
"Her numbers are improving. Brain activity is good. I'm hopeful we can remove the ventilator this morning."
They do it at 8 AM. She breathes on her own—shallow, but steady.
I keep tracing. Keep holding her hand. Keep willing her to open her eyes.
At 10:30 AM, she does.
Her eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. Then open fully, dark eyes unfocused, confused.
"Sonya." I lean forward, my hand tightening on hers. "You're in the hospital. You were poisoned. But you're okay. You're going to be okay."
Her eyes find mine. Recognition dawns. Then she looks down at our joined hands.
Relief crashes through me so hard I nearly collapse. I bring her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her wrist where I've traced her name a hundred times.
"You scared me," I say against her skin.
"How long was I out?"
"Nineteen hours. It's Monday morning. Almost eleven."
She studies my face. Sees the fear, the exhaustion, the raw need. "You meant it. What you said in the studio. That you've known since the gallery."
"Every word."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm terrified of losing you. Because everyone I love dies. Because—"
The phone on the hospital room wall rings.
We both freeze.
Nobody calls hospital room landlines anymore. Everyone has cell phones. If hospital staff needed us, they'd use the intercom or just walk in.
I reach for it slowly, already knowing. Already feeling the ice in my veins.
I answer, speaker on. "Yes?"
"Maksim!" Anton's voice fills the room—pleased, exactly like fifteen years ago on the phone while Elena died. "How lovely to finally speak directly again."
