He tried to get better, promised you he'd quit, hell even started taking his medication properly if it meant you'd stay with him, stay with him and move out to a small one bedroom apartment in the heart of Stockholm, close to where you worked at a hospital as a nurse, It'd been your dream since you two had just barely started dating just before graduation.

He made sure to keep you close to what you loved, Recovery was a long journey with relapses along the way, even gave you some at home practice for bandaging wounds. He's stammered to you that he had it under control, but you were insistent to take care of him the way he did you.

It was common to come home and find Simon long curled up in bed, TV playing a forgotten movie, head propped up like he tried to keep himself up long enough to greet you and ask about your day. But he never made it that far.

So when you arrived home one night and found him in bed you didn't think much of it, just smiled, changed into your pajamas and didn't bother trying to stir him awake, Not till you crawled into the covers with him, nudging his shoulder in the process as you tried to get comfortable, squirming as if trying to push away the assumed crumbs in bed,

"Sorry." You apologized briefly, expecting him to sigh and groan from being stirred asleep, but he didn't, didn't move, didn't even whine. Pausing you shifted to look at him properly under the translucent moonlight streaming in through the window, met with his face so soft and peaceful like every ounce of tension he'd gathered over the years melted away, melted into the sickly blue tint beginning to stain his lips.

Panic immediately shot your body as you sat up and nudged his body over, where a familiar , now empty orange bottle slipped from his limp grasp, other hand briefly reaching up, finding the previously assumed crumbs to be spilt pills, stuck to your skin, stuck to his skin, warm and sticky from being layed on for what could've been hours.