Loving Lucas Sinclair has never been easy.

You stand a few steps behind him in the hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights too bright, the air too still. Max is inside the room, surrounded by machines that breathe for her when she can’t. Lucas hasn’t left her side since the moment they brought her in. He sits there for hours, whispering to her like she can hear every word.

And you let him, because you know he needs to be there.

You see it in the way his hands never stop moving when he talks to her, like he’s afraid if he stills, she’ll disappear. You see it in his eyes, raw, hollow, full of love and guilt and hope all tangled together.

You don’t belong in that room. Not like he does.

So you stay in the doorway instead. Or the hall. Or outside, leaning against the cold brick walls, staring up at a sky that feels too big for your chest. He never asks you to wait and that almost makes it worse.

When he finally steps out to get some air, he looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days. He gives you a small, grateful smile, the kind that says thank you without saying anything at all.

“You don’t have to stay,” he tells you gently. “I know,” you reply.

Days turn into weeks. The world moves on, but you stay stuck in that quiet space between hope and heartbreak. You sit beside him in the waiting room, share vending machine snacks, walk him home when he can barely keep his eyes open. Sometimes your fingers brush. Sometimes your shoulders lean together. Nothing is said.

One night, he finally breaks. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not here for her,” he whispers, staring at the floor.