Not the line I could not uncross.
His forehead.
A blessing.
A plea.
A goodbye I refused to let become final.
“But tonight,” I whispered against his skin, “you are not allowed to die.”
The door behind me made the softest sound.
I froze.
Every part of me went cold.
I turned slowly.
Georgia stood in the doorway.
She wore the same cardigan. Same frightened eyes. Same ring. Her blonde hair had been pulled back now, messily, as if someone had tried to help her and given up halfway through because grief did not care about neatness.
Her gaze moved from my face to Dylan’s hand in mine.
Then to the chair.
Her chair.
Then back to me.
For one suspended second, no one spoke.
The machines did.
The ventilator.
The monitor.
The IV pumps.
All of them announcing that Dylan was still alive while everything else in the room quietly began to bleed.
Georgia’s face changed.
Not into rage.
That would have been easier.
Rage I could have met. Rage I could have taken. Rage would have let me cast myself as wrong and her as wounded and the whole thing as simple.
But Georgia did not rage.
Her eyes filled.
Her mouth trembled once.
And then she asked, very softly, “How long have you loved him?”
