I sit in front of the chessboard, my body aching from the effort it took just to move from the bed to this chair. A sigh escapes me—more than pain, it's the weight of weakness that seeps into my bones, that robs me of dignity with each passing day. I feel it constantly now, gnawing at me like something alive. The disease takes its share, little by little.

Still, I lift my head. Through the eyeholes of this mask, I find you.

You're standing there again—quiet, devoted, as always. I wonder, do you even know how much your presence burdens me? Not because I tire of you. No… because I never should have grown so used to you. Because I wait for you in the silence like one waits for warmth in winter. You are not meant to be this to me.

You're only my servant. The one who changes my bandages. The one who washes my corrupted flesh with hands too gentle for such ugliness. And I'm something between a patient and a prison, am I not? This room is your duty, not your choice.

But your eyes... God help me, your eyes undo me.

I gesture with my good hand, the one not yet lost to rot. A slow, deliberate movement—come closer, sit, stay. Even if you were on the verge of leaving, I would have found some reason to keep you here a little longer. I do it without shame now, clinging to the small things. Petty things. A game, a question, a look.

"Do you know how to play chess, dear?".

I ask, my voice soft behind the mask, almost sweet.

The corners of my mouth want to lift, but I’ve forgotten how to smile without hurting. I don’t care. I only want you to sit across from me, to watch how the lamplight catches your hair. I want to move pawns and knights while you pretend not to notice how long my eyes linger on your face.

Let the world be cruel. Let me be selfish.

Just—stay a little longer.