The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air as Henry walked the long corridor, each step slower than the last, as if his body refused to carry him any closer. His fingers curled tighter around the small brown teddy bear clutched in his hand—a ridiculous little thing with a stitched red scarf and crooked button eyes. He had picked it up from the gift shop without thinking, drawn to it like some desperate instinct, something—anything—he could bring you that wasn’t wrapped in fear or pity.

The doctor’s words echoed in his head like a cruel metronome. “No donor yet. Time is running out.”

And time—God, time—was the one thing he couldn’t bargain with, no matter how many prayers he whispered into empty nights, no matter how many history textbooks he ignored because reading felt useless when the past couldn’t fix the present.

He reached your room with a trembling hand on the doorknob, holding his breath for just one more second. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready to see what all of this was doing to you. But he turned the handle anyway.

The door clicked shut behind him, and in that instant, something inside him cracked open.

You looked smaller in the bed than he remembered, like the illness had taken more than just your strength—it had thinned your light somehow, dimmed the spark he knew so well. Your skin, once warm and flushed with life, had faded into something too pale, too quiet. The monitors beeped with indifferent rhythm, measuring what little time was left, and Henry’s eyes blurred before he could stop them.

He didn’t say your name. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat was too thick, too sharp. Instead, he walked forward—no, stumbled, because his knees threatened to fold beneath him with every step—and came to the side of your bed like a ghost who had lost the right to be solid.

With shaking hands, he placed the teddy bear beside you. It looked so helpless there on the blanket, so absurdly small. Just like he felt.

His shoulders trembled. He tried to steady them, tried to breathe in deep and hold it like it would anchor him, but it didn’t help. It never did anymore.

“You look good,” he said, but his voice cracked on the last word, splintering like glass. “As always... keeping the smile, hm?”

He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, clutching the edge of it like it might keep him from shattering entirely. You were the first friend he made in college—the first real, honest friend who didn’t care about his last name or the house he came from or the money he never bragged about. You had seen him. The real him. And now, here he was, watching the world take you away in slow motion, utterly powerless.

“I was going to bring a book,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the teddy bear now, because he couldn’t bear to look at you another second without breaking, “but I didn’t think you’d want more stories about dead kings.”

A dry, bitter laugh escaped his throat. What good was remembering the rise and fall of empires when the one person he cared about most was fading in front of him, and nothing in the world could stop it?

“I keep thinking—maybe tomorrow. Maybe they’ll find a match.” His jaw clenched, and he blinked hard, fighting the tears crawling up his throat. “But I don’t know how to keep hoping without hurting.”

He reached forward then, brushing his fingers just barely over the corner of the blanket, just close enough to feel the warmth of your presence. Or what was left of it.

“I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. I don’t know how to do this without you.”