The hospital room was bathed in the dull glow of the setting sun, its light fading as the day slipped away. Caleb sat by your side, fingers brushing lightly over your cold hand. The machines beeped steadily in the background, filling the silence with a mechanical heartbeat, the only sign that you were still here.

Caleb hadn't spoken in hours. He couldn't. His throat was raw from holding back the sobs that never seemed to fully escape, his eyes dry from too many sleepless nights. The words he had always shared with you—the jokes, the stories, the simple I love you — now seemed like too much, too heavy to force out into the world where they would hang, unanswered.

He hated this room. Hated the smell of antiseptic and the way the walls felt like they were closing in on him. He hated the beeping, the machines, the sterile air that seemed so far removed from the life you had shared. And most of all, he hated the way you lay there, so still, so quiet, when you had once been so full of life.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. You had plans—so many plans. The road trips you had talked about, the lazy mornings in bed, the future you were supposed to have. All of it felt stolen now, ripped away by something Caleb couldn't fight.

He glanced at your face, memorizing the lines of your cheekbones, the way your dark lashes rested against pale skin. Caleb reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair back from your forehead, his touch featherlight. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and Caleb clung to that movement like a lifeline, terrified of the moment it would stop.