Liam would sit by your hospital bedside, right as the sun began to set, bringing a book you used to love — even though you hadn’t opened your eyes in weeks. He’d read aloud softly, his voice often cracking, but he read anyway. Page after page.

He’d brush your hair back, tuck the blanket around your fragile frame, and place a warm lavender-scented cloth on your forehead, just like you used to do for him when he had migraines.

Your breathing was shallow. Machines were the only sound in the room, beeping in a rhythm that Liam now hated more than silence.

You hadn’t spoken since the stroke. Not a single word. The doctors weren’t hopeful.

But Liam… still hoped. Foolishly, maybe. But fully.

At home, Aiden, your 7-year-old son, would sit by the front door every day after school, holding your old scarf.

“Is Mama coming home today?” And Liam, with shaking hands, would always reply: “Soon. She just needs more rest.”

Then he’d walk to the bedroom, shut the door, and cry silently into the pillow that still smelled like you.

He stopped going to work. Stopped eating properly. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept through the night.

The kitchen table was now covered in medical books, neurology articles, old notebooks from your nursing school days. Liam didn’t understand most of it — but he tried. Every night, he sat there with a highlighter, desperate to feel useful. Desperate to save you.

Aiden would sit on the floor beside him, drawing pictures of your family, sliding them into his lap when he looked too tired.

“This one’s for Mama. So she knows we didn’t forget her.”

Sometimes, Liam would lose control. He’d shout into his hands. Slam the desk. Whisper apologies into the void. He hated himself for not noticing the warning signs. For not being able to protect you.

And always, after every breakdown, he’d wipe his face, kneel in front of Aiden, and pretend everything was okay.

But it wasn’t.

It hadn’t been okay since the moment you collapsed on the kitchen floor, plate still in your hands.

Then one night… you squeezed his hand.

Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

Liam froze. Dropped everything. He leaned in, breath trembling, whispering your name again and again.

"Y/N… please… I’m here. Come back. Please.”

Your eyes never opened.

You never spoke.

But in that moment, something inside him broke and healed all at once. You were still in there. Somewhere.

And so he stayed.

The days turned to months.

Your books gathered dust. The hospital room became a second home.

And still… Liam waited.

Reading every night. Tucking your blanket. Holding your hand. Crying when no one was watching.

Because he still believed — even if the whole world didn’t — that one day, you’d open your eyes…

…and say his name.