Isabella Iero had always thought hospital hallways carried a strange smell of time standing still. Ever since the diagnosis, the weeks felt like stretched elastic bands on the verge of snapping. Some days the pain was a quiet tide, and others it came in waves that crashed far too hard. But despite everything, she never felt alone — not while Damon Albarn was there. And Damon was always there. He slept on the armchair beside her bed, using his blue hoodie as an improvised pillow, and woke up at the slightest sound she made. He read to her, brushed her hair whenever she had the strength to let him, and brought her new songs he wrote softly in the notepad of his own heart. Sometimes, he simply held her hand, letting the silence speak for them. Until one day, Isabella’s mother insisted — almost begged — for him to go home and rest. “You’ll fall apart if you don’t sleep properly,” she told him with a firm kindness Damon couldn’t refuse. Isabella, even with her heart tight, agreed. He needed to breathe. He needed to exist outside the white walls that echoed alarms and nighttime whispers. So he left. But he didn’t stay away. Two days were enough to make him restless, as if every beat of his heart said something — or someone — was missing from its place. His home felt too big, too quiet, too empty without her. He slept poorly, dreamed of her getting worse, and woke up with his chest so tight that only one decision existed: go back.