“Alright,” she murmurs.
Then she quietly leaves the room again.
Ellie leans forward slightly in her chair.
Her thumb brushes slowly across my knuckles, over and over again.
Like she’s reassuring herself that I’m still here.
And even in my half-conscious state, I squeeze her hand back.
In the days that follow, I remain confined to bed, my movements restricted, my body fragile. The doctors have me under strict orders—no sudden exertion, no unnecessary stress. And Ellie? She becomes everything I need.
She oversees my medication schedule like a drill sergeant with a heart, personally changing my dressings, monitoring my vitals, and adjusting pillows until I’m comfortable. She refuses to leave my room, even when my family comes in, offering help or trying to relieve her. She shakes her head politely but firmlyevery time, making it clear: She’s the one holding me together now.
I watch her as she moves around me. There’s a fluidity to it, but also a tension I haven’t seen before—an undercurrent of fear she can’t completely hide, masked behind clinical efficiency and calm movements. Each step, each motion, betrays just how much she’s holding herself together for my sake.
She’s also been very quiet, and I can’t wait for us to have a clear conversation.
Three days after the surgery, a fever hits me hard in the middle of the night. My skin burns, sweat clings to my hair. I stir, confused, on the edge of delirium.
Ellie doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t panic. She presses cool cloths to my forehead and wrists, murmuring softly to keep me anchored. She adjusts the blankets, lifts my head slightly, and whispers my name over and over. Her eyes are wide, tired, rimmed with shadows from sleepless nights—but she doesn’t waver.
I drift in and out of fevered sleep, but every time I wake, she’s there. Every time my mind threatens to spiral, her presence tethers me. I feel her weight against my side when she kneels next to the bed, her fingers brushing mine, keeping me tethered to the world, to her.
And as dawn creeps over the horizon, painting the room in soft, pale light, I realize: I’m alive not just because of the surgeons, not just because of medicine, but because of her. She’s kept the fever, the fear, the pain from swallowing me whole.
She’s kept me here. And I know I’ll never forget it.
By afternoon, I’m feeling better. When Ellie leaves the room to grab water for my drugs, I swing my legs off the bed and make my way to the bathroom myself. The pain is a dull throb now, manageable, and I want to prove to her that I’m already improving.
By the time I’m stepping out of the bathroom, she’s coming through the door. The panic in her eyes hits me before she even speaks. She rushes toward me.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, voice calm, though my chest still aches. “I feel better.”
She grabs my arm instinctively and guides me back to the bed. “You should have waited for me,” she scolds softly, though her hands tremble just slightly.
Once I’m settled back on the bed, she kneels beside me, carefully placing the drugs and water within reach. Her hands are steady now, though her eyes betray the exhaustion she refuses to admit. I take the water and swallow the pills, letting out a long sigh as relief washes over me.
“I…” I begin, my voice hoarse but determined. “Can we talk now?”
She shakes her head immediately, tugging her hands from mine. “You need to rest,” she says, trying to sound firm, but her eyes betray the worry she’s holding in.
I insist, leaning slightly toward her. “Ellie, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She pulls back further, wiping at the corner of her eyes, and says softly, “I need to…shower. I can’t stay like this.”
I frown, my chest tightening. “If you leave the room, I’ll come after you,” I warn gently, “and that would stress me more—but it won’t stop me.”
Her shoulders slump, and she turns toward the door, but tears spill freely down her cheeks. “I feel…guilty, Mike. If I hadn’t left home that day, you wouldn’t have gotten shot. I…I wish it had been me instead.”
I stop her with a soft shake of my hand, pulling her gently back toward me. “Ellie, listen to me,” I murmur, lowering my voice until it’s almost a growl, but filled with tenderness. “Noneof this is your fault. You didn’t cause this. You didn’t fail me. Do you understand?”
She blinks rapidly, trying to hold back more tears, and nods slightly. “I…I just…I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I lift her chin with my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze. “I’m alive because of you. You stayed. You didn’t leave me to fall apart. You held me together when everything was falling apart outside. That’s what saved me, Ellie. You.”
Her lips quiver, and she lets out a shaky breath.
