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I’m not ready.

***

The next morning a nurse walks into the room while I run my fingers over Damiano’s lips, trying to memorize them. The shape, the softness, every detail, as if somehow I can store them away and keep them forever.

She stops beside the bed and looks at him, then at me.

“If you notice he’s in pain, we can start the morphine.”

Her voice is gentle and careful, like she’s afraid I might break apart right there in front of her.

I glance at Damiano. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow but peaceful for now.

“Not yet.”

The words come out as a whisper.

“Please... not yet.”

The nurse nods, no judgment or argument, just understanding.

“If the pain becomes unbearable, you call me, okay?”

I nod.

She squeezes my shoulder once before quietly leaving the room.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Morphine.

I stare at the empty doorway.

I know why they give morphine. I know it will keep him comfortable if the pain gets worse. But I also know he’s already sleeping more, talking less, drifting further away from me every day, and I’m terrified that one of these times he’ll close his eyes and never open them again.

Call me selfish, call me cruel, but I still want him here.

I still want his sleepy smile, his stupid jokes, his voice calling me Vita mia. I want another conversation, another story, another kiss, another smile.

Another hour.

Another minute.

Anything.

I reach for his hand and press it against my cheek.

Not yet.

God, please.

Not yet.

I’m not asking for a miracle anymore. I’m not asking for years. I’m not even asking for months.

Just a little longer.

Just enough time to hear his voice again.