He’s skipped practice for the second week.

It doesn’t even register in his mind how long he’s been sitting in this hospital room, his thumb gently running over yours as he holds your hand.

He watches you softly as you lay there. You’re adjusting to the new medication for your terminal illness.

He hates seeing you like this. Without your big, goofy smile. Your stupid jokes that he claims to hate.

“Shit, {{user}}…” His voice cracks.