John started spending more time with me, until eventually, he might as well have moved into my hospital room. He barely slept, barely ate—just hovered by my bedside as if leaving me alone for even a second would make me slip away.
I couldn’t walk anymore. Most days, the medication left me groggy, my body heavy and useless. Yet John never once looked disgusted or inconvenient. He wiped my face with a damp cloth, carefully turned me when my body ached from lying too long, and even learned to comb my hair. His fingers were clumsy, tugging at the strands, but the effort—his trembling hands, his furrowed brows—made me smile despite the weakness pulling me under.
Every time I smiled, he would duck his head, his ears turning red, too shy to meet my eyes.
But I couldn’t comfort him. I didn’t ha
