when the heart ❣️ remembers

chapter 19

Chapter 19 – Through Her Eyes, Through His Heart

Elena’s POV

The first thing I notice when I wake is the sound of rain. It taps gently against the hospital window, soft like fingertips, yet persistent, as though the sky itself is mourning with me. My chest aches—not just from the illness, but from the heaviness of knowing I am running out of time. My breaths are shallow, thin, and sometimes jagged, like torn pieces of paper fighting to hold together.

I shift slightly, and my gaze finds him.

Adrian.

He is sitting slouched in the chair next to my bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands knotted together as if in silent prayer. His usually sharp, commanding face is undone; the lines under his eyes are deeper, his mouth tense, and his eyes half-closed but burning. His hair falls messily against his forehead, and the faint stubble on his jaw is darker than usual. He hasn’t been sleeping—I can tell. My strong, composed Adrian looks like a boy lost in the middle of a storm.

My heart twists painfully.

I don’t know what hurts more: the sickness eating my body, or the thought of leaving him in this cruel world without me.

“Adrian,” I whisper, my voice weaker than I intend.

His head jerks up immediately, eyes wide, as though he was terrified he had missed my last words. He leans close, his hand slipping into mine. His palm is warm, almost burning against my cold fingers.

“I’m here,” he says quickly, desperately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I smile faintly. “You never do.”

His thumb strokes over my knuckles, his eyes locked on me as though memorizing me all over again.

But it’s me who needs to memorize him.

I reach for the sketchbook at my bedside. My movements are clumsy, weaker than before, but determination pushes me. Adrian watches, confused, until I pick up the pencil.

“Elena… what are you doing? You need to rest,” he says softly, trying to take it away.

“No,” I whisper stubbornly. “I want… I need… to draw you. One last time.”

He stills. His lips part, but no words come. I see the flicker in his eyes, the mix of pain and reverence, as though he knows what this means. He doesn’t argue again. Instead, he shifts his chair closer, his face just inches from me, letting me look at him as though he belongs to me and me alone.

And in this moment, he does.

My trembling fingers guide the pencil across the paper. Each line is a prayer, each curve a confession of love.

His eyes—I sketch them first. They’re stormy tonight, heavy with fear and devotion, but behind them I remember the first time they looked at me with fire. Those same eyes have watched me laugh, cry, and fall apart. I shade them gently, tears blurring my vision, but I don’t stop.

His jaw—I trace the strength there, though tonight it trembles with exhaustion.

His lips—slightly parted, as though holding back everything he wants to say but can’t.

And then his hands. Those hands that have held me like something fragile yet sacred. I sketch them, not perfectly, but enough to capture the way they feel when they hold me tight.

I pause, my chest rising with a shaky breath. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. “Even when you’re breaking.”

Adrian exhales sharply, his hands covering his face for a moment. When he looks back, his eyes glisten.

“Elena…” His voice is hoarse. “You’re the one who’s beautiful. Always.”

I give him the faintest smile and lower my pencil. My body is too tired, my lungs too heavy. I can’t finish the details. But I know he’ll see himself there—through my eyes.

I close my eyes, but I still feel him, sitting so close that his breath brushes my cheek. And though I don’t tell him, I silently beg the universe: Please, let him never forget how much I loved him.

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Adrian’s POV

She thinks I don’t notice the way her body shakes when she lifts the pencil, the way her lips pale from effort. But I do. God, I notice everything. Every shallow breath, every flicker of pain across her face.

And still, she fights to sketch me—as if I’m worth capturing on her fading canvas of time.

When she whispers I’m beautiful, something inside me cracks wide open. No one has ever looked at me the way she does. Not my wealth, not my power, not my name—me. Just me. And the thought of losing that gaze, of losing her, is like drowning while still breathing.

“Elena,” I murmur, my voice shaking as I take the sketchbook from her trembling fingers once she lowers it.

I look at the half-finished portrait. My likeness is there, but it’s more than that. She’s drawn me with a tenderness that exposes every wall I ever built. It’s me, but through her eyes. And that is the most devastating gift.

I press my lips to the page, tears burning my eyes.

She doesn’t see—her lashes flutter closed, exhaustion pulling at her—but I lean close and whisper against her ear: “I will never let your love die. Even if I burn with it.”

Her chest rises and falls unevenly, her small hand curled in mine. I sit there, trapped between rage at the universe and desperation to freeze this moment forever.

And then she stirs, her voice barely audible. “Adrian?”

“Yes, my love.”

Her eyes are glassy, but they hold mine with fierce clarity. “Promise me… when I’m gone… you’ll live. For me.”

The words shatter me.

“Elena…” My throat tightens painfully. I want to lie, to tell her she’s not leaving, that I’ll save her. But the truth trembles on my lips. “I promise,” I whisper, even though inside I know I don’t know how.

Her lips curve into the faintest smile, as if I’ve given her peace.

I cannot bear it. I crawl carefully onto the hospital bed beside her, ignoring the tangle of wires. I gather her against me, her fragile body fitting perfectly in the cage of my arms. She sighs softly, her head resting over my chest, her ear pressed to my heartbeat.

We lie there like that, fingers entwined, silent tears sliding into her hair.

And for the first time in my life, I pray. Not for miracles—I’ve stopped believing in those. But for the strength to love her so fiercely in these last days that death itself will feel jealous.

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Elena’s POV

I drift between sleep and wakefulness, cradled against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear. My body is breaking, but my soul feels wrapped in him, safe, cherished, claimed.

If this is how I leave the world—loved by Adrian, sketched into eternity by my own trembling hands—then maybe it isn’t death that wins. Maybe love does.

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