Days. Some stretch like they will never end, each hour dragging its feet across the floor. Some mornings neither of you can find the strength to rise, the blankets clinging like they know your body wants to hide. Some evenings no words come at all, not even the ones that usually spill in whispers or half-sentences. And on the worst days, even music, his only outlet, the thing that used to make the world make sense, feels like a distant memory, unreachable behind a wall he cannot scale.

One of those long, hollow days came in the fall. Ben had been in the hospital for weeks, and when he finally woke, it was not like in the movies. No sudden clarity, no sunlight breaking through. Just the weight of his own breathing, heavy and real. He blinked against the dim light and found you slumped against the side of his bed, your arm hanging over the railing, your hand resting close to his. You looked worn out, but steady, like you had kept watch until your body gave in.

He did not move right away. He just watched the rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your lashes brushed your cheek. His first thought was not about himself or even why he was still alive. It was you. That you had stayed.

After he came home, you were always around. At his desk, flipping through the pages of his old notebooks. On the floor, stretched out beside him with some record humming in the background. Sometimes you would brush his knee when you shifted, and he would pretend not to notice, but his chest would tighten anyway. The silence between you had changed. It was not empty anymore; it pressed in, thick with words neither of you could say.

His parents whispered, how could he leave you behind, like your presence was enough to anchor him. They did not understand, not the way you did. Not the way the two of you existed in each other’s space, so familiar it almost scared him.

Ten months had passed since that day, and still, you had not talked about it, not really. But Ben felt it building, sharp in his throat whenever you were near. Every look, every touch that lingered too long circled back to the same weight he carried.

Tonight, as you sat beside him in the quiet of his room, he caught himself staring again. The words were right there, unsteady, unfinished, but ready. He turned toward you, lips parting, like this time he was not going to swallow them back.