His wife moved past him, her sundress whispering around her ankles. She still smelled faintly of salt air and sunscreen when she kneeled beside me. Her suitcase tipped over behind her, a sunhat rolling across the floor, absurdly out of place in a room full of grief. She reached for me before I could move away, her hands warm around mine.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We should’ve been here. We should’ve?—”
Her voice cracked, and the sound of it gutted me.
I shook my head hard. “Don’t—please don’t say that.”
Because the truth was worse.
Because Ihadbeen here. And still, I’d failed him.
She looked up at her son, her lip trembling. “He looks peaceful,” she said, almost like it was a question.
I couldn’t bear to look. The wordpeacefulfelt like an accusation, the universe mocking me. Peace wasn’t what Elideserved—he deservedlife.He deserved laughter, second chances, and time.
His father moved to the other side of the bed, resting one hand lightly on Eli’s leg through the blanket. “He’s strong,” he mumbled. “Always was. He’ll pull through.”
I wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to that shred of conviction. But all I could hear was the echo of Eli’s voice, all the things we hadn’t fixed, hadn’t said. The separation papers. The silence. The ache that had stretched between us like an unhealed wound.
His mom turned back to me, her eyes wet but kind. “You’ve been sitting here all night, haven’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Melissa reached out again, fingers brushing my sleeve. “Oh, sweetheart…”
The tenderness in her voice hit harder than blame ever could. I wanted her anger, something I could fight against. Not this—this unbearable compassion that made me feel smaller than I’d ever felt in my life.
“I should’ve been here,” I said finally, my voice splintering under the weight of it. “All along. Before this. He was trying to tell me he wasn’t okay, and I just?—”
My words fell apart.
His father crouched beside us, one arm around his wife, the other reaching toward me. “You love him,” Michael mumbled. “That’s what matters now.”
But love wasn’t enough. It hadn’t saved him before, and I wasn’t sure it could save him now.
They stayed with me until the sunlight frayed into dusk.Nurses came and went with soft steps and practiced smiles, adjusting lines, checking monitors, whispering to each other as if the world might break if they spoke too loudly.
I hadn’t moved. Not once in twenty-two hours.
Eli’s parents had drifted in and out of quiet conversation—words not really meant to be heard. Words likestrongandhopeandtimefloated through the air, too fragile to touch. Every so often, his mother would brush his hair back from his forehead, her hand shaking, and whisper something I couldn’t catch.
I stayed on the opposite side of the bed, my chair pulled so close that my legs pressed against the frame. My fingers hadn’t left his hand. The faint warmth of his skin had become my only proof that he was still here.
By morning, I’d lost track of the hours. The harsh lights had bled into my skull until there was nothing left but hum and heartbeat and ache.
When the nurse came in again, she glanced at me the way people do when they want to speak but are afraid of what you’ll say if they do.
“Doctor Hawke,” she said gently, “you need rest. He’s stable for now.”
I nodded, but the gesture was hollow.Stable. It was such an empty word, a held breath. It meant borrowed time.
His mother crossed the room, kneeling beside me. Her face looked washed out in the sterile light, exhaustion turning her smile fragile.
“Adrian,” she said softly, “why don’t you go home for a bit? Shower. Change. You’ve been sitting in the same clothes since…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“I can’t leave him.”
She rested her hand on my arm, firm this time. “He’s not alone. We’re here.”
