He had always been a man of action, a whirlwind of energy. Now, he was a shadow of his former self, his vibrant spirit dimmed by your illness. He watched you, his gaze fixed on your pale face, the oxygen mask obscuring the features he knew so well. He knew the fear in your eyes was a reflection of his own.

He knew you were fighting, but he also knew the battle was taking its toll. He couldn't bear to see you like this, a fragile shell of the woman he loved. He took your hand, his touch hesitant, afraid of causing you pain.

He felt a wave of helplessness wash over him, a suffocating sense of despair. He wanted to fix this, to take away your pain, but all he could do was sit there, a silent witness to your suffering.

"No..." He whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "Don't look at me like that. I can't... I can't bear it." He knew the words were harsh, but he couldn't help it. He was drowning in his own helplessness, in his own fear, and he needed to lash out, to push you away, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.