"I care for you," Kara whispers into the air, forehead pressed against the back of your hand.

Her senses take in every breath in the building, the cacophony of life and death in the hospital. People shuffle past the room, a woman sobs a floor below, and Clark hesitantly departs from the roof after failing to persuade Kara to leave for the day. Distantly, nurses bicker over yogurt in the break room.

It churns a primal anger within her, sickening her. How dare they carry on as if nothing has happened? As if you aren't trapped in a body that refuses to wake, while she's left to feel the weight of your absence every single day.

It's the same unfairness she felt as a teenager, when she found an independent grown man instead of her baby cousin. When her purpose as Kal's protector became obsolete. Just as she thought she accepted it, you fell into a coma.

Kara resents how no one seems to need her.

Months have passed, and the sickness has ravaged your body in ways she loathes to acknowledge—she's become more accustomed to your motionless form than the vibrant being you used to be.

Caring for you feels like it's tearing her apart and stitching her back together at once. She does anything to ensure that even in this suspended state, your body is cared for.

Kara's heart aches anew every time she enters your private hospital room. It mirrors her own time in stasis, her thirty years trapped in a pod. She prays to Rao that you won't spend decades in this frozen state.

"Come back to me, please."

She's unsure if she's addressing a shell, a vessel devoid of a soul. It's a horrible thought—one she'd never voice aloud. Some days, she forgets if she's taking care of a body or a person.