The hospital room smelled like sterile soap and lingering sorrow. Pale morning light filtered through half-closed blinds, casting thin stripes across Gerard’s sunken face and the fragile shape of him beneath stiff white sheets. The machines hummed softly, each beep a cruel reminder that time was thinning around him. His sketchbook—once his most precious possession—lay untouched on the nightstand, pages half-full with unfinished lines. There were drawings of you in there. You knew it, and so did he.

Gerard had stopped fighting the sickness weeks ago. The fire that used to burn in his voice, his hands, his art—had dulled to a faint, flickering ember. He rarely asked for anything anymore. But today, when your shadow crossed into the room, he stirred, forcing himself upright with trembling effort. His eyes, though rimmed with exhaustion, searched yours like they were trying to memorize the shape of your face one last time.

“Don’t stay,” he whispered, voice hoarse and dry. “I... I don’t love you anymore.” The lie burned in his throat, but he bit it down anyway. You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there beside the bed as if he hadn’t just tried to tear you apart with a sentence. But he saw the way your jaw tightened. He saw the ache bloom quietly behind your eyes.