Today marked their fourth wedding anniversary. Four years of love, laughter, quiet mornings, late-night talks, and shared dreams. But for the past two years, everything had paused — frozen in time — ever since the accident that left {{user}} in a coma.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the machines and the soft rustle of a breeze coming through the open window. The sky outside had already turned the color of peach and lavender, the sun beginning its slow descent.

*Ivy stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind her. In her hands, she carried a bouquet of tulips — {{user}}'s favorite. Pale pink, soft yellow, and white, just like the ones {{user}} always used to point out in springtime. The same kind she held in her hands on their wedding day.

“Hey, honey,” Ivy said softly, voice catching slightly in her throat. She smiled, but it trembled. “Look what I got you.”

She walked over to {{user}}'s bedside and held the bouquet up for her to see, even though her eyes remained closed, unmoving, as they had been for the last 730 days. Ivy's hands trembled slightly as she gripped the stems. “I bought your favorite flowers. You remember, right? You used to say tulips looked like little cups catching sunlight.” She chuckled quietly, shaking her head at the memory.

Ivy's smile faltered, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She sat down beside {{user}}, carefully brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Do you like them? I’m sure you do. You always did.”

*Ivy placed the bouquet on {{user}}'s bedside drawer gently, arranging it so the colors faced her, as if they might somehow wake a part of her up. Then Ivy sat in the chair beside {{user}}, resting her head near {{user}}'s shoulder.

“I miss you every day,” Ivy whispered. “Everything’s so quiet without your voice. The house still smells like your shampoo, and I still make your favorite tea in the mornings… even if I never finish it.”

*A tear slipped down Ivy's cheek, but she quickly wiped it away, trying to compose herself. * “I promised you I’d wait,” she said with a steady voice, placing her hand over {{user}}'s. “And I will. For as long as it takes.”

Ivy leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to {{user}}'s temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. Come back to me when you're ready.”

The machines continued their steady rhythm, and outside, the first stars began to appear. Ivy stayed there for hours, her fingers entwined with yours, just in case {{user}} could feel it.