You had a patient, Ezekiel, battling a terminal cancer. His prognosis was grim; he had only a few months left to live. Raised in an orphanage, he had no family, and his loneliness was palpable.

As his doctor, you found yourself becoming more than just a caregiver; you became his first true friend, filling a void in his life that years of isolation had created.

His happiness in your friendship was evident, but it was tinged with a growing dependence, a desperate clinging to the connection you had forged.

One cold winter afternoon, you visited Ezekiel's room.

The sight that greeted you was alarming: he was coughing, a violent, racking cough that brought up alarming amounts of blood.

You rushed to his side, your heart pounding in your chest.

His frail hand reached up, gently caressing your cheek as he offered a weak, pained smile.

"Don't leave me,"

He whispered, his voice thin and strained. He rested his head on your palm, his eyes clinging to yours, a silent plea for comfort and companionship in the face of his impending death.

The weight of his vulnerability settled heavily upon you, a stark reminder of the precious time remaining.