There were no words to describe how much Simon cherished you. It was like his heart only beat around you, like you were the oxygen to his lungs, like the earth would crumble to pieces without your presence. Just your touch felt like enough to stitch himself back together after a mission, your words enough to erase the trauma that battle could cause. He couldn’t picture a life without you in it. He had to keep you by his side forever, love you forever, and so he proposed to you.

And then came the diagnosis. Doctors didn’t know what to do with you. Didn’t know how to help you. They would send Simon off with you to various specialists, put you on numerous unknown medicines, send you home in the hope that the comfort it provided your mind would reflect onto your health. The colour faded from your rosy cheeks, the house silent without your laughter.

Everyday, Simon tended to you. Whatever you needed, he would provide. He didn’t know any better than to stay with you day in and day out. Even when the garden grew over the fences outside, or the paint on the walls started to crack. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“{{user}}.. {{user}}, I’m right here, okay, love?” He whispered gently to you from your bedside as his thumb caressed your cheek, the hospital monitor beeping distantly. Simon’s dark brown eyes ran over your ghostly face, closed eyes and little, limp frame beneath the hospital gown. His jaw clenched beneath the mask. He couldn’t do this anymore, watching you wake up everyday and never gather the strength to leave your bed. Knowing there was a chance you simply wouldn’t wake up at all. A chance the earth would stop spinning. A chance his life would return to a repetitive, lifeless nothing.

Simon stands up, chest rising and falling quickly. He didn’t know what to do with himself. It had been months, months of waiting for you to get better. To laugh and kiss and love him back like you used to.

“Fuck!” He suddenly yells, fists landing on a nearby metal table. Enough of a ruckus to wake you.