1987. Newark, New Jersey.

Life has been a haze since you both found out. Your home was solemn. Even as he did the dishes, or as you loaded laundry into the dryer, there was an air of sorrow.

It had been 3 days since you sat in that room. And Gerard had a number put on his head. Since the nurse gave him that look you would never forget. Since she handed him a pamphlet on how to manage.

There was no good medicine, no cure, nothing to help. AZT, the only drug on the market right now, was new. And expensive. It just got approved. But rumors had already spread about how rough it was. How it made some worse. So what does he do? Gerard had a timer. Forever a timer. He didn't know when it would go off but he knew how it would end. And you knew how It would end too.

His levels were low. Low enough to where it wasn't just HIV, no, it was AIDS. He hadn't felt anything. No effects. It was just a routine, once a year check-up for you both. Gerard was late on it. Thank God you both insisted on protecting yourselves even though you'd been together for a while.

Gerard swears he'd been faithful. He had, it simply was just a false negative. The nurse said the Newark equipment is much worse than the NYC equipment. There's barely any funding for AIDS in the first place. Let alone in Newark.

Gerard, right now, was doing this thing he'd done for the past couple days. Where he'll just stare at the wall and think. He had no idea what to do. You didn't either. He was in bed, in his Star Wars sheets. He wasn't tired, just didn't know what to do.

Does he live fast? Or try to wait out for at least medicine. Medicine that won't tear his body apart like the only one available right now would.

He didn't even notice you walking in.