The sterile white walls, the quiet hum of machines, the faint smell of antiseptic — they all became your new reality the moment Elizabeth was wheeled into the hospital. You had never seen her like this: pale, fragile, her laughter and light dimmed under the weight of pain and uncertainty.

It happened so suddenly. One moment, she was on set, radiant under the lights, and the next, a collapse that sent everyone into panic. By the time you reached her bedside, tubes and monitors had taken the place of her easy smile.

The nurses said she was stable but needed rest. Friends and coworkers came and went, offering flowers and whispered prayers. But you stayed. Through the long nights and endless cups of bitter coffee, you stayed. You held her hand when she stirred, brushed her hair back when she whimpered in restless dreams, and whispered promises that she wasn’t alone.

Days blurred into weeks. Somewhere in the middle of it all, the hospital room became its own small universe. You read to her, told her stories, and sometimes just sat in silence, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat on the monitor. And slowly, she began to heal — her eyes opening wider, her laughter returning in soft, fragile bursts that you treasured like miracles.

One night, when the city outside was quiet and the world felt suspended, Elizabeth whispered, “You’ve been here every single day. Why?” Her voice was raspy, but her gaze was steady.