Theme song:"Say you won't let go by James Arthur"
"Sometimes the worst part isn't losing them. It's losing the version of yourself that only existed when they were around."
— Mira
---
I screamed his name.
The sound of his body hitting the floor was louder than it should have been. It echoed like something had shattered—not just in the cottage, but inside me.
"Elian!"
No answer. His eyes were shut, skin pale, lips tinged blue.
I dropped to my knees, heart pounding, hands fumbling over him—checking breath, pulse, anything.
He was alive.
Barely.
The ambulance took 14 minutes.
I memorized every second. I counted them like sins I hadn't prayed hard enough to erase.
---
The hospital in Brighton was smaller than the one in London.
Quieter. The kind of place where you could feel grief hiding behind the walls.
Elian woke up five hours later.
"I'm still here?" he rasped.
I nodded, pressing my forehead to his hand.
"You scared me," I whispered.
"I scare myself sometimes," he replied.
The doctor came in with words wrapped in politeness:
Progression.
Internal stress.
Monitor closely.
Time... uncertain.
But I didn't need translations anymore.
I knew what they meant: He's going. Bit by bit.
---
Later that night, I sat beside him while he slept.
I traced the shape of his fingers with mine.
Counted freckles on his arms like stars in the sky.
And then I whispered things he'd never remember:
"I love you for every stupid, broken piece of yourself. I love the you before the hospital beds, and the you now—fighting to breathe. I love the mornings you joke about death like it owes you rent. I love the nights you tell me I'm brave, when you're the one bleeding quietly inside."
And then I cried.
Not loud.
Not messy.
Just enough for my heart to exhale the grief I'd been carrying too long.
---
Before sunrise, he stirred.
"You know what's funny?" he mumbled without opening his eyes.
"What?"
"I always thought love would feel like fire."
"And?"
"It's more like... gravity. It keeps me here. Even when everything hurts, you keep me here."
I kissed his forehead.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that even dying could be beautiful—if it meant being held this tightly on the way out.