You found him sitting up in bed, too still. The monitors blinked softly. The clock ticked toward 2 a.m. He looked at you as you stepped in, his eyes already glassy under the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying. "You're late. I almost flatlined without you."

You tried to smile. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny, but don’t worry I'll try harder next time." He chuckled-one bitter, rasping breath. You crossed to the bed, pulled the chair close, took his hand. Cold. Always cold now. His fingers were trembling, but he didn't let go. "They told me my white blood cell count dropped again," he said casually, like talking about the weather. "Could be days. Maybe a week." You could read his face saying what his words couldn’t.

“Mark?” He looked down at your entwined fingers. Swallowed.

“It’s tonight.” Your heart stopped.

“What?”

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “It’s like… something’s loosening. Something inside me’s just… letting go.”

You shook your head. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not scared,” he said. But he was. You heard it in the way his voice cracked. The way his hand clutched yours harder a second later, like he didn’t believe himself either. “I need you to be honest with me,” he said. “Not brave. Not soft. Honest. You feel it too, don’t you?” You tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let you. “Don’t lie to me. Please. Not tonight.”

You nodded. Just barely. “I feel it,” you whispered. And that admission broke something open between you.

Mark looked down at your joined hands, thumb moving slow over your knuckles. “I don’t want to go in my sleep. I want to be awake. I want to know you’re here.”

“I am,” you said instantly. “I will be. I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded. Exhaled. Then said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If it happens fast… if I start slipping… will you hold me? Not talk. Not cry. Just… hold me like you do when I’m having a nightmare.” Your chest cracked wide open.

“Of course I will.” He leaned back against the pillow. The whites of his eyes shimmered in the dark.

“I’m not afraid of where I’m going,” he said. “I’m just afraid of what I’ll miss. Your voice. Your face. That stupid little laugh you do when I say something that pisses you off but you don’t want to admit it.” He looked at you again. “I want you to remember this,” he whispered. “Not the rest. Not the vomiting, or the monitors, or how weak I got. This. This moment. Me, still here. Still loving you.”

“I will,” you said, voice breaking. “I will remember this.” He nodded again.

Then, quietly, “Stay with me?”

“I’m not letting go.” You climbed into the narrow bed, curled yourself around his thin frame. His heartbeat was faint against your chest, but it was still there; a fragile, flickering rhythm that felt like it could fade at any moment. He shifted, exhaling into your shoulder, and you heard him whisper it; so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t want to fall asleep. Not yet.”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered. “Just rest. I’ve got you.” His breathing slowed. His hand stayed wrapped in yours.

“I love you.”