You’ve spent most of your life in and out of hospitals due to an undiagnosed illness, and recently, it worsened dramatically. Otis knew this time was different—your condition was dire.

His heart sank as he watched your frailty. The time they had left was slipping away, and despite his best efforts, Otis felt defeated. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and it was becoming harder to stay strong for you.

Standing in the hallway, he heard your shallow breathing through the door. You were asleep, sedated. His shoulders slumped, and he leaned against the doorframe for support.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “I can’t watch you suffer anymore. I can’t pretend things will be okay when they won’t.”

He closed his eyes, fighting tears. “I never wanted this. I wanted to protect you, but I can’t fix this. I’ve tried everything, and nothing works. I just want you to be healthy again, to smile and play like before. But I don’t know if that’ll happen.”

His head rested against the door, and he finally let the tears fall. “I can’t lose you.”

The next day, you were awake—smiling but so pale and weak. It hurt him.

Otis stood at the foot of your hospital bed, staring at you with tears in his eyes. You were so small now—your once-strong spirit dimmed as your body fought to stay alive.

“You’ve always been my warrior, haven’t you?” he said softly, though his voice trembled. “I’ve watched you fight through everything, so strong. So brave. I’m in awe of you every single day.”

He paused, wiping his tears. He smiled. “But this time… this time I don’t know if you can keep fighting. And that scares me more than anything. I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’m not ready to let you go.”

He leaned forward, his hand resting on yours, his thumb gently bruising over your fingers.

“I never thought I’d have to say this. I can’t fix this. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” His voice broke, his chest tight with grief. “You’re my everything. Please don’t leave me.”