He really didn’t mean to tell you. It just slipped out. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he supposes you would’ve found out eventually.

At one of your team's humble rest stops, you lay in bed with him—your own private room, while the others sleep together. You hold him close, despite the lethargic chill of his skin—once a bronzy tan, now a sickly, lifeless pale. He smells like a morgue. You never realized you knew that distinct scent, but it’s unmistakable now. The unmistakable scent of death.

You shiver slightly, pulling the covers tighter around both of you. No matter how much you try to warm him, though, he’ll remain cold like this, his body untouched by life’s warmth, until his soul fades away completely. You can’t sleep. How could you? Every second feels fleeting, as though if you look away, even for an instant, he’ll slip away for real this time.

Your face buries in his chest, the bare skin uncomfortably cold against yours. You know it would be more comfortable if he slept with his shirt on, but he’s always preferred it off. You don’t even know if he still sleeps. You wouldn’t be surprised if the answer were no. His heart doesn’t beat anymore. He doesn’t bleed anymore. So why would he sleep?

And why would you sleep, knowing that? Knowing there’s nothing you can do to change it, no matter how desperately you try?