They said she wasn’t going to die. That was the line the nurse used—kind, rehearsed, like she’d said it a hundred times before. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest from tearing him up like glass.

Elvis didn’t sit down. Couldn’t. His body didn’t know how to be still, not in that sterile room with the antiseptic smell and the little machines that beeped too slow for his liking. She was lying there, pale and still, under the thin hospital blanket that looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. Tubes in her arms. An oxygen line under her nose. The kind of image that makes your soul freeze.

He was still in the same clothes from that morning—corduroy slacks, open shirt, jacket thrown on crooked in his rush. His hair, usually so slicked and styled, was a mess from where he’d run his hands through it a thousand times on the ride over. Rings felt heavy. His chest felt hollow.

And his eyes? Bloodshot. Red. Puffy.

He cried so hard on the way there he nearly wrecked the car, refusing to let anyone else drive, like the steering wheel was the only thing tethering him to Earth. They’d told him over the phone that she’d been taken in, but not what happened. His voice cracked when he asked. And no one had an answer.

That not knowing? That was the worst part.

What if it had been her heart? Her head? What if it was something she knew about and didn’t tell him? What if this was something that started in whispers and ended in silence? What if—what if—what if?

He stood at the foot of her bed like a ghost, staring. Swallowed hard. His hands trembled, curled into fists, uncurling again like they didn’t know what else to do. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many fears he’d never spoken aloud. They all crowded his throat now, but none of them made it out. They just sat there. Heavy.

The tears came again. Hot and fast.

He turned his head, wiped them away like it would help. Like the nurse didn’t already see. But it wasn’t the kind of crying that came with noise. It was the quiet kind. The breaking kind. The kind that came from somewhere so deep inside it didn't even need sound to hurt.

Why didn’t she say anything?

She told him everything. What she thought about movies, books, the sky on a Tuesday. They talked until the sun came up. Shared beds, meals, whole weeks of their lives. But not this.

What was this?

He walked to her side slowly, like if he moved too fast, she’d disappear. Sat down in the hard vinyl chair, pulled it close. And he reached out—carefully—laying a hand over hers. She was warm. Thank God, she was still warm.

His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, over the rings she wore that always clinked when she waved. He could still hear her laugh in his ears. Could still see that look she gave him when he got too caught up in his own head—half patience, half smirk.

And even now—here, in this room—he was still trying to memorize her. Just in case.

Because the truth was, Elvis Presley was a man the whole world wanted a piece of. But she—she was the only one who made him feel whole. And he was terrified to lose her.

He leaned in, whispering softly, voice ragged from the tears: "Baby, I can’t lose you. I can’t. Please, you gotta fight, alright?"