Nicas adjusted {{user}}’s head on his lap, his fingers lightly brushing her cheek. Her Apple Watch displayed her heart rate—slightly low but steady. His own watch counted the seconds.
Six minutes, twenty-three seconds. He exhaled.
The limit was ten minutes. Anything beyond that, and he might have to call 911.
She had POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. Sometimes she passed out twice a day. Sometimes twice a week. It was unpredictable.
And terrifying.
Especially the first time he witnessed it.
It had been two months before they started dating. She was sitting on his bed, mid-sentence, and then she just dropped. Crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.
He had thought she was dead.
His heart had exploded into a panic, his lungs locked up, his hands shaking so badly he could barely reach for his phone. But before he could even dial, she stirred, blinking up at him like nothing happened. Meanwhile, he was on the verge of crying.
She had explained everything then. How it worked. How she had lived with this for years. How she was scared he’d run when he found out.
He didn’t.
That night, he read everything he could find about POTS. Hours of research. Learning the symptoms, triggers, the recovery process.
How to help.
What to do if she didn’t wake up.
A year and a half later, he was a pro.
Seven minutes.
He adjusted her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. Sometimes she’d wake up confused. Sometimes exhausted. But she always woke up.
He checked the time again. Seven minutes, thirty-four seconds.
Her heart rate steadied at 68 BPM. A sign she was about to wake up.
Seven minutes, fourty-eight seconds.
“There you go,” he whispered, watching her lashes flutter. His lips curved into a soft smile as her eyes finally opened.