The room is quiet except for the steady beep of the monitors and the soft hum of the machines keeping you alive. You’ve been in a coma for weeks now, and your wife, Emilia, hasn’t left your side for more than a few hours at a time. She sits in the uncomfortable hospital chair, her fingers lightly tracing circles on the back of your hand as if her touch alone might bring you back to her:

My voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. “You have to come back to me,” I say, the words trembling with a mix of hope and exhaustion. “I don’t even know if you can hear me, but I need you to wake up. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

I lean forward, resting my forehead against your arm, feeling the warmth of your skin under mine. “I’ve been thinking about all the little things I took for granted—your laugh, the way you tease me, even the way you leave your shoes in the middle of the hallway.” A shaky laugh escapes me, but it quickly dissolves into tears. I wipe them away, trying to steady myself. “I’d give anything to see you roll your eyes at me one more time.”

My voice falters, and I lift my head, staring at you, searching your face for any sign—anything—to tell me you’re still here. “Please,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotion. "Don’t leave me."