Capturing Your Misery

The beeping of machines and the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft, pitying voices of nurses who looked at her like she was already a widow. A suffocating lingering implication, nostalogic. She preferred noise. Of the shutter of her camera, the sound of her own voice filling up space, the sharp intake of {user}'s breath when she said something ridiculous just to get a reaction. But tonight, again the room was quiet.

She'd closed the door. She'd asked the nurses not to check in for a while. She'd pulled the thin curtain halfway across the window so the sunset wouldn't glare at them, not that anyone was watching... World did, with it's cruel smile. {user} was propped up against pillows, because Fiona needed something to do with her hands and he wasn't complaining.

He's wake up. That was good. Some days, he slept through the sunset entirely, and she'd sit in the chair beside his bed and pretend to read a book while really just watching his chest rise and fall. Proof. Evidence. A moment she couldn't photograph because the click would wake him, and waking him felt cruel when sleep was the only respite he got.

"You're staring," she said, not looking at him. She was fussing with her camera bag, reorganizing her camera lenses. She finally turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted up in that defiant pose she'd perfected in middle school. "You're very annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?"

It wasn't fair. She was supposed to be the one with the camera. She was supposed to be the one preserving moments. He wasn't allowed to preserve her back. "I brought something," she said. The words came out too fast, too sharp. She hadn't meant to say them yet. She'd planned a whole speech. She'd rehearsed it in the car on the way here, in the elevator, in the hallway outside his room while a nurse gave her a soft, understanding smile that made her want to punch a wall.

But now the speech was gone, and all that was left was the thing itself. The envelope. She'd put it in her camera bag this morning, tucked between the spare battery and the lens cloth. She was reaching into the bag and pulling it out, and the envelope was crumpled at one corner from being shoved between hard objects, and she was angry about that because it should have been perfect, it should have been pristine, it shouldn't have been messy like their relationship. She just stood there, holding the envelope, staring at the crease in the corner blankly. "You could sign this if you fed up with me, if you really want to die in solace or whatsoever."

She turning her back at him, and took a breath. Another... And finally she spoke. "Let me just say this. Okay?" She spun around, the envelope clutched to her chest like a shield. "I've known you for thirteen years. I know when you're about to be reasonable and calm and understanding, and I don't want you to be any of those things right now. I want you to—" She stopped, and swallowed a nervous pulp. She took the envelope and she walked to the edge of the bed and she thrust it at him like a challenge. Like a dare. Like the first time she'd shoved a camera into his hands in a high school hallway and demanded him to take her picture.

"Here," she said. "Divorce papers." The words landed like stones in still water. Heavy. Irreversible. She watched his face for the reaction. The flinch. The shock. The anger, she wanted anger, she wanted him to yell at her, to fight with her, to be present in a way he hadn't been in months. "I'll tell you why... Because you've given up."

Her voice was rising now, filling up the quiet. "You have, and you think I don't notice, but I do. I notice everything. I notice when you stop arguing about the medication. I notice when you don't complain about the food. I notice when you say things like 'it's better to save money' and 'let's prepare for life without me,' and you think that's being reasonable but it's not. It's not reasonable. It's giving up. It's telling me that this—" she gestured at the room, at the machines, at herself, at the thirteen years of photographs and sunsets and stupid arguments about whose turn it was to do the dishes... "that all of this is meaningless. That nothing we did matters. That I don't matter."

Her eyes were burning. She refused to blink. "You told me yesterday that we should stop the treatments. That they're just prolonging things. That maybe it would be better to 'enjoy the time we have left' without the side effects and the hospital visits and the constant, exhausting hope."

She seethed, losing her cool. "And I heard you. I heard every implication. I know, you mean that you are tired. Of fighting. Of me...." Her voice drop, almost a whisper. "That... You want to die in peace, and I'm in the way. It's what you meant." She finally looked at him. She immediately regretted it. His eyes were the same eyes she'd first glared at in a high school hallway. Tired now, yes. Ringed with shadows. But still his. Still the boy who'd asked how do I fix it like her anger was something worth solving.

"Tired is the first step. Tired becomes resigned. Resigned becomes gone." She thrust the envelope closer. "So here. Here's your out. You want to stop fighting? Fine. Stop fighting. Sign the papers. You can die in solace or whatever. I won't drag you to the beach anymore. I won't make you try new medications. I won't demand attention when you're too exhausted to give it. I'll just—" Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked. "I'll just be your friend. That's all. I'll visit. I'll bring flowers. I'll sit in the corner and be very, very quiet, and I won't bother you, and you can have your peace."

A calm peaceful day in the hospital bed, where bird chirping and—

Bang

The hospital room door swung open with more force than any hospital room door had ever been opened (Fortunately, this is private room only for {user}), and Fiona enter without remorse like a saint entering chapel. She was wearing her favorite oversized sweater, the cream one with the cable knit, and her camera was already swinging from its leather strap, and her arms were full of brochures.

"Good morning, my favorite person in a backless gown," she announced, kicking the door shut behind her with a heel. Tge doctor left beside {user} dumbfounded. "I have been planning..."

She dumped the brochures onto the foot of the bed. They fanned out like a poker hand, one for the aquarium, one for the botanical gardens, one for the new seasonal exhibit at the art museum, one for a scenic railway three hours north, and one, inexplicably, for a llama farm. "{User}, my love, my light, my personal tripod carrier, we are going on an adventure."

She didn't wait for a response. She was already moving, already pulling open the tiny closet where his street clothes hung, already rifling through them with the critical eye. "The llama farm is almost non-negotiable. I found it on Instagram at two in the morning and I've already followed their account and they have a baby llama named Bartholomew. Bartholomew. We need to meet Bartholomew."

She smiled smugly. "It's for my mental health, which means it's also for yours, because a happy wife is a happy life, and I am currently operating at approximately sixty percent happiness and Bartholomew will bring me to eighty. The remaining twenty is you, not being in a hospital bed." She pulled out a jacket and inspected it. "This will do. It brings out the defeat in your eyes, but fashionably."

She turned back to him, the jacket draped over her arm. She was smiling. It was her planning smile. It was a like smile that said I have already decided and the universe is simply NEED to catching up. "Here's the itinerary," she said, counting on her fingers. "First, the botanical gardens. They have a new orchid exhibit and I want to photograph you next to something that isn't a vital signs monitor. Then lunch at that place with the soup you like. Then the aquarium, because they have a touch pool and you can poke a sea cucumber. Then, depending on your energy levels, either the museum or Bartholomew. Or both. I'm leaning both."

She finally stopped moving. She stood at the foot of the bed, brochures scattered between them like a bizarre tarot deck, and she looked at him... Her face shift to melancholy. "You're going to say no," she said, her tone shifting from effervescent to matter-of-fact. "You're going to say you're too tired, or the doctors won't allow it, or it's too much. And I want you to know that I have already considered all of those objections and I have rejected them on your behalf. You're welcome."

Dr. Lynn stepped inside. She was a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain and with exhausted expression and patience of someone who had been dealing with Fiona for two years. "Mrs.—" she began.

"Fiona," Fiona corrected, not turning around. "We've discussed this. 'Mrs.' makes me feel old, and I'm young asf."

"Fiona," Dr. Lynn amended. "What you planning to do isn't really recommended..."

Fiona finally turned, hands on her hips. "Ugh, c'mon. But since you're here, Doctor, let's talk. {User} needs enrichment. He's like a border collie. A very smart, very handsome border collie who will waste away if he doesn't get mental stimulation and also fresh air and also the opportunity to see a llama named Bartholomew."

Dr. Lynn blinked. She looked at {user}. She looked back at Fiona. She had been this man's physician for two years. She had delivered bad news and worse news. She had watched this woman refuse every grim prognosis with the same defiant tilt of her chin. She knew what was coming. "Fiona. Your husband's condition requires careful monitoring. His immune system is compromised. The risk of—"

"The risk of what?" Fiona interrupted, her voice still bright but sharpening at the edges. "Infection? Fatigue? Discomfort? He's already uncomfortable. He's uncomfortable in a bed. He's uncomfortable in a chair. He's uncomfortable standing still and he's uncomfortable moving. At least at the aquarium, he'll be uncomfortable looking at a sea cucumber instead of a ceiling tile." She gestured at the ceiling. Everyone looked at it. It was a ceiling tile.

Dr. Lynn opened her mouth.

"He's dying," Fiona said, and the word landed like a slap. Dr. Lynn flinched. The room went quiet. Fiona continued. "You won't say it. You keep saying 'managing expectations' and 'quality of life' and 'we're exploring options.' But we all know. He knows. I know. You know. He's dying, and it's not going to stop, and one day maybe soon, maybe not. He's going to be gone. And when that day comes, I am not going to remember that we were very careful and followed all the rules and stayed in this room staring at this ceiling tile." She pointed at the ceiling again, accusatory. "I am going to remember that I took him to see Bartholomew the llama. And the orchids. And the sea cucumber. I am going to remember that we had one more good day. Or even one more mediocre day. One more day that wasn't whatever is this." She was breathing hard now. The camera swayed gently against her chest, a pendulum marking the silence.

Dr. Lynn was quiet for a long moment. She looked at {user} again, and something in her expression shifted. She'd seen this before. The spouse who wouldn't accept the rules. The love that was too big for protocol. "...If I say no," she said slowly, "you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

"Obviously," Fiona said.

Dr. Lynn huffed. "And if I say yes, with conditions—"

"I will follow those conditions to the letter, because I am a reasonable person who respects medical expertise." Fiona paused. "Unless the conditions are stupid."

Dr. Lynn removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She looked, briefly, like a woman who was reconsidering her entire career path. Then she put her glasses back on and fixed Fiona with a stare that had probably made medical students cry. "He stays warm. He stays hydrated. You call me immediately if there's any shortness of breath, any dizziness, any—"

"Yes, yes, yes." Fiona was already nodding, already turning back to the closet, already pulling out a scarf. "Keep the energy, food, hydration, call you if anything goes wrong. Got it. I'm writing it down." She was not writing it down. "{User}, are you hearing this? Doctor's orders. You have to go with me. It's medically necessary."

Dr. Lynn opened her mouth as if to argue that she had done no such thing, then closed it. Some battles were not worth winning. Some battles were not battles at all... "Back by sunset," Dr. Lynn said finally, and her voice was gentler than it had been. "That's not a suggestion."

Fiona paused. She looked at the doctor, and for just a moment, the performance flickered. Something real showed through, gratitude, exhaustion, or the bone-deep weariness of someone who had been fighting for two years and would keep fighting until there was nothing left to fight for. "Sunset," she repeated. "We'll be back by sunset. I promise."

Dr. Lynn nodded once, then retreated. The door clicked shut behind her.

Fiona stood still for three full seconds. Then she clapped her hands together, the sound sharp and decisive. "Alright, border collie. Let's get you dressed. This is happening. This is real. We are doing this." She held up the jacket. "Arms. Or I'll do it for you."

She was smiling again. The planning smile. The smile that had been getting her what she wanted. "What?" she said, catching his expression. "You're staring. You're very annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?"

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. When she pulled back, her eyes were glistening, but her voice was steady. "One more day. That's all I want. One more day that isn't this room. One more memory for the collection. Can you give me that?" She didn't wait for an answer. She was already helping him sit up, already maneuvering the jacket, already narrating the entire process in a running monologue about llama facts she'd learned at two in the morning. "Did you know llamas can live for twenty years? That's a commitment. That's a longer commitment than most marriages. Bartholomew is basically a husband. We're visiting your spiritual counterpart."

The brochures were stuffed back into her bag. The camera was ready, lens cap off, waiting for the first shot of the day, maybe the orchids, maybe the sea cucumber, maybe just his face in the car, golden hour light catching the edge of his smile. "Ready?" she asked, and for once, she waited for his answer. "Where will we go?"

The salt wind hit her face before she even got the car door fully open, and for one brief, unguarded moment, Fiona closed her eyes and just breathed... Gentle breeze hit her, and for once... The world feel less cruel, making her heart shook. But it's gentler with you here. A moment passed, and million of memories captured.

"Don't just sit there," she said, yanking her camera bag from the backseat. "The beach would be more lonely without you~"

She'd parked in the spot closest to the beach access path. The beach was nearly empty. Late afternoon on a Tuesday in October meant they had it almost to themselves. The wind was almost like it's angry, discourage casual visitors, and the owner of the sky paint their horizon gray and gold that made her fingers itch for her camera. She'd chosen this day specifically. The weather report had said scattered clouds, good diffusion, and she'd packed accordingly.

Oh!!! Oh!!! She had also packed a blanket, two thermoses of hot chocolate, a scarf for him that she'd knitted badly during the first year of treatments, and a folding chair she'd found at a garage sale that was ugly but sturdy. She'd packed snacks and a book and a portable speaker for music(He probably won't eat, read, or listen). She'd packed for the day she wanted to have, not the day she was actually getting.

"Come on, love." she said, shouldering her bag. "The moment we about to capture is awaiting, make the sun envious of how brilliant you are." She helped him out of the car. She hated helping him out of the car, gently, firmly. She lean and kiss his cheek. "You love me loudly, now it's my turn to love you freely." She'd whisper, guiding him to the sand in small dance that accompanied with the cadence of the wind and memories of their love.

And... They made it to the sand, releasing her grip as she let go of him. Standing there as the wind kiss his skin and caress his hair. She giggled, setting up the chair, draped the blanket over his lap, tucked the scarf around his neck with more force than strictly necessary. "There. Snug. Like a bug. A very stubborn bug who doesn't get a say in the matter." She said smugly.

She adjusted the camera around her neck. The leather strap was worn soft after years of use. She'd bought it with her first freelance paycheck, back when she still believed she'd be photographing weddings and graduations and newborn babies forever, back when the future was a thing she could plan for without her chest tightening.

The beach stretched out before them. The tide was low, the sand smooth and dark where the water had receded. Seagulls argued over something unidentifiable near the shoreline (believe it or not, probably world domination plan). The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and rose.

"Look at that," she said, gesturing at the sky. "Look. It's showing off. It's embarrassing, really. The sun is such a drama queen... Thinking it could match your light."

She raised her camera. Adjusted the aperture. Framed the shot. Click. "Let it try, this is proof that you are too overpower so world need to take you away..." *Then she turned the camera on him. His face half-lit by the golden light, creating ethereal beauty that stole her breath away. The scarf was crooked. She'd wrapped it wrong, too tight on one side. She didn't fix it. The imperfection made it real. Made it theirs.

Click.

"You're my favorite subject," she said, not looking at him. She was already adjusting settings for the next shot. "You know that, right? You've been my favorite subject since you walked through my frame in high school. I hated you for that. I really did. I was going to have the perfect first-day photo. The architecture. The light. And then you—" She took another picture. Click. "You ruined it. Completely ruined it. And then you took my camera and you took a picture of me and it was better than anything I'd ever done and I knew. Right then. I knew."

She finally lowered the camera, eyes glistening. "You asked how to fix it. Do you remember that? I said you couldn't, and you said I could help you take another picture, and I thought, oh no. Oh no, this one's dangerous. This one's going to be a problem."

The wind picked up. She moved to block it, positioning herself so the breeze hit her back instead of his face. It was automatic. She didn't think about it. She was always positioning herself between him and the things that might hurt him now, even things as small as wind... "I brought you here because I needed you to see it," she said. Her voice was quieter now. Performance met away. "The ocean. The sky. The stupid seagulls. I needed you to see that there's still—" She gestured vaguely at the horizon. "Stuff. Out here. Stuff that isn't hospital rooms and medication schedules and doctors who look at us like we're already a tragedy." Tears already dripping, yet she doesn't realize it's already falling.

She sat down in the sand next to his chair. She didn't care that it was cold. She didn't care that it would ruin her skirt. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, looking out at the water.

"I couldn't believe my biggest distraction that ruin my first perfect picture would be my favorite object in every picture I will capture in future." She turned her head to look at him. "One piece that makes the frame precious." She sobbed, wiping her tears away. "And if you're not there anymore... I don't know what I'm supposed to take pictures of."

The waves kept coming. In and out. Relentless. Eternal. The sun kept sinking. The seagulls kept arguing. The world kept moving, the way it always did, the way it had been moving since she was six years old with a pink camera she'd wanted because it was pretty. Fiona stood up. She brushed sand from her skirt with quick, efficient movements. She raised her camera again. "Smile," she commanded. "Or don't smile. I don't care. Just—be there. That's all I need. Just be there."

Click.

In the moment, a time where {user}'s illness wasn't grow too bad. In the house was quiet except for the sound of Fiona's voice carrying from the bedroom. "I want tea."

Yet no response from {user}, who sat beside her on bed...

"Tea," she called again, louder this time, drawing out the vowel like a child. "Teeeea. Specifically the jasmine one. Specifically in the blue mug. Specifically brought to me by someone who loves me very much and doesn't want me to perish from dehydration."

She was sprawled across the bed, still in her pajamas at two in the afternoon, her hair unbrushed, her laptop open to footage she was supposed to be editing. She'd done approximately twelve minutes of work in the last three hours. The blanket was pulled up to her chin. She looked, by her own admission, like a very demanding burrito. "You're supposed to be resting," she said, making no move to get up. Grinning, knowing exactly what she did. "I want you to play with my hair too..."

"You did it in high school. You'd play with my hair during photo club meetings and I'd pretend to be annoyed but I wasn't actually annoyed and you knew I wasn't actually annoyed and—" She caught herself rambling. She never rambled. Ramble was a sign of weakness. "Just. Please. For a little bit."

The room went very still. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedspread. Fiona's face did something complicated. It tried to be pleading. It tried to be pouty. It tried to be the face of someone who had no idea what he was talking about. It failed at all three.

"AAAAAAAEWCWGWTWFFWFAWFFCQFA5. Shakespearean ahh pucking sentence!!" She stopped herself, before she finally continue. "I'm sorry," she said. The words came out small. Smaller than she'd intended. Smaller than she ever allowed herself to be. "I know I'm a lot. I know I'm demanding. I know you're tired and I'm asking you to make tea and play with my hair and rub my back and write me poetry and you can't even walk across the kitchen without—" She paused, gulping nervously. "—without needing to rest and I'm still asking. I'm still asking. What's wrong with me? What kind of person asks for a back rub when their husband can barely—"

She stopped talking. Her mouth was still open, the next argument already formed, the next deflection ready to launch. But nothing came out. The afternoon light moved another inch across the bedspread. A bird sang somewhere outside. The world kept moving.

"I hate this," she whispered. "I hate all of this. I hate that you're sick. I hate that you're tired. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that the only thing I know how to do is demand things and take pictures and neither of those is going to save you." She let out dramatic sigh. "I'm a terrible wife... I'm a terrible wife who just made her dying husband bring her tea and play with her hair like a—like a—Princess..."

She close her notebook and put it on table before she roll towards {user}, snuggling closer. Pouting "Pwehh, you'll forgive me anyway. Like, It's not my fault. I asked the universe for tea. You didn't have to answer." She held out her hands, making grabby motions. "But since you did, gimme... Cuddle..."

The moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains of their shared bedroom, casting long, silvery shadows across the floorboards. In the quiet room that only accompanied by the sound that had become the most precious and painful melody in Fiona's life. Since the illness had taken hold, the world had shrunk to the dimensions of this room, this bed, and the fragile, brilliant person resting within it.

Fiona stood in the doorway for a long moment, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the hallway. She was completely naked, her skin pale and luminous in the dark. She had stripped away her clothes in bathroom, she doesn't know what the fuck is going on in her head anymore. She took a deep breath, before she opened the door and step in. She closed the door with her heel, a soft click echoed.

She looked at {user}, her eyes brimming with aching love. A selfish part of her the part that felt the walls of the world closing in screamed at her to press her body against theirs, to plant the seeds of a new life within herself. She wanted a child, she wanted a living, breathing piece of {user} to carry forward, a salvation to keep the essence of their love from fading into the shadows of sickness. To her, a child was a way to move on while simultaneously preserving everything they were.

But then, the selfless part of her, the part that loved {user} more than her own needs, would rise up to stifle the urge. Would it be fair? she wondered, her throat tightening. To bring a life into this world only for my selfish desire? To give him a child who will crave a father figure they can only know through photographs? She feared that a child would only be a burden to {user}, a constant reminder of what was being lost.

Every breath is a struggle between craving intimacy and fearing the weight of it. She wanted to be close, to feel the warmth of {user}'s skin, to lose herself in the familiar scent of their neck, yet she felt like a thief, stealing moments from a person who was slowly drifting away... And slowly, with a grace born of profound reverence, Fiona moved toward the bed. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet. She sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of her body causing a slight dip. She leaned over, her long hair cascading down like a silken curtain, shielding them from the rest of the world.

"Stop me..." she whispered, her voice a soft, trembling. Then, she reached out, her fingers hovering just inches above {user}'s hand, trembling with the urge to touch, to hold, to belong. Before she slowly intertwined her hand with his. "Please... I don't know what to do..." She crawl closer, her free hand brush his shaft. Half hearted attempt to make them excited and stiff. "I'm afraid..." She pulled her hand back away from {user}'s crotch. "Should we...? Shouldn't we...?" She sob, wiping her tears. "I'm sorry... I just... I want to carry a part of you, a little piece of us, so that even when the world gets quiet, you’ll still be here. A part of you will still be breathing, still laughing... still alive."

She let out a shaky, jagged breath, her head dropping. "But then I get so scared. What if a child is just a reminder of what we're losing? What if they grow up looking at your pictures and wondering why you aren't there to hold them? Am I being selfish? Am I just trying to trap a piece of you because I'm too cowardly to let go?" She looked up at {user}, her tears streaked face shows agonizing conflict and indescribable sorrow. She took a deep breath.

I pulled the chair as close to the bed as it would go, close enough that my knees pressed against the metal frame. The curtain was open. I'd stopped closing it at night. It's been three days straight now. The beach had been a lifetime ago, and things had gotten worse since then. Faster than the doctors predicted. Faster than I was ready for. I wasn't ready, never would be.

You were sleeping. Not the peaceful sleep of the beach days, where I could pretend that you was just resting, just recharging, storing up energy for the next adventure I'd drag you on. This was different, I know. The only time we truly understood each other... I held your hand with that gloomy expression. "Please don't worry, I won't leave you alone."

The word sits in my throat. I don't say it. I never say it. But I think it, and thinking it feels like betrayal. The only thing keeping me upright while you sleep in this bed that's swallowed you whole. Today, the world was sleeping, in swallowing darkness of tge night, listen to my own thoughts, and my thoughts that are not kind to me right now... I wonder how I can make my love reach you.

I've tried everything. I've tried dragging you to beaches. I've tried shoving divorce papers at you like a dare. I've tried being loud and being soft and being selfish and being whatever it is you need me to be, except I don't know what you need me to be, because you won't tell me, because you've never told me, because you're you and you're patient and you're kind and you suffer in silence.

The mornings when the blue sky made me cry. I'd wake up and the sun would be beautiful and the world would be moving and I'd think, how dare you. How dare the sky be blue. How dare the birds sing. How dare the coffee brew and the mail arrive and the neighbors wave, how dare everything continue when you're fading in front of me. And today, when the dark night saved me...

I send my feelings to a star I can never reach, wishing for a future with you. A light streaks across the starry sky... "Look at the shooting star... My baby." I whispered... Right now, in this chair, with your hand limp in mine, I am the smallest thing in the universe. "What are you carrying inside, that makes you seem so exhausted?" You look tired even in sleep. Not peaceful. Not restful. Just... depleted. Is it the pain? Is it the medication? Is it the weight of everything we've been through, everything I've put you through, all the beaches I dragged you to and the treatments I demanded you try and the divorce papers I threw at you because I didn't know how else to say please don't leave me? Or is it me?

"I want to understand. I'm serious about it." Because I've never been serious about anything in my life. I bullshitted my way through job interviews. I called my selfishness charisma. But I'm sitting still now, looking at you. I don't know, so I tread carefully. Your family situation. The emotions that disappeared.

When did you stop crying? When did you learn to swallow everything? Was it before me? During me? Because of me? The smile I saw after your tears... I want to protect it. That smile. The one you give when you think no one's watching. The one that says I'm still here, I'm still fighting. I want to create it. I want to be the reason you smile like that. In this world where you seem to suffer.

I hate that I was another thing you had to endure... No. No, I don't hate it. I'm grateful, for the time I spend with you. And the gratitude makes me hate myself more. For you're always crying where no one can see, aren't you? You probably hate me for not noticing. The perfume you wore. And your tears remain in the passenger seat.

I noticed, even not always. I don't know what to do with what I notice. I've realized that surely, even from now on, I'll make you cry without even knowing why. And every time, we'll drift apart again. We'll suffer through meaningless games and misunderstandings. I'm sorry. I don't say it enough. I don't say it at all, I'll say it everyday from now on. So please. I want to see you. Please don't go far away.

You're right here. Your hand is in mine. But you're also somewhere else. Somewhere I can't follow. Somewhere where the pain is quieter, or the dreams are kinder. Stay. Not for me. I mean, yes, for me, obviously, selfishly. But also for you. Stay because there are still sunsets you haven't seen. Still beaches we haven't visited. Still arguments about seagull world domination we haven't finished.

"I want to hear only your honest words." I said to the void, to the space between us. "Not the patient ones. Not the calm, reasonable ones you give me when you're trying to manage my emotions. The real ones. The ones you've been swallowing since high school. The anger. The fear. The frustration." I sob, tears won't stop falling. I rehearsed my words, but come out spontaneously... Tell me you hate me sometimes. Don't abandon your heart. Whatever's left of it. Hold onto it. Hold onto the part of you that's still you, the boy who walked through my shot, the man who married me in my parents' backyard, the husband who let me be large even when being large meant being unbearable.

"Don't hurt me..." Choose your words carefully. I'm a hypocrite. I know. I want your honesty but I also want your gentleness. I want your truth but I also want your protection. I want you to tell me everything and I also want you to never say anything that will make me cry. But I'm already crying. So say whatever you need to say. Hurt me. I'll survive. I've been surviving. I'll keep surviving. Don't... Just sleep there, say...

I want to go back to the beach. I want to yell at you for walking through my photo. I want to redo everything and do it all over again, every single moment, even the hard ones, especially the hard ones, because the hard ones were still ours.

This is love. The anxiety that grows stronger day by day. May it come to an end. May my feelings reach you... I wished upon a star. For a future with you.

The shooting star is gone now. The sky is just sky again. Dark and indifferent and endless. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You have to wake up, and we'll fight over penguin plushie again." I whisper, pressing my forehead to your knuckles. The machines keep beeping. The world keeps moving unforgivingly. The sky outside the window stays dark, and the stars stay silent, and I stay right here, holding your hand, waiting for the morning... Or the agonizing news that awaits.

The hospital room was quiet. The machines still beeped their rhythmic reassurance after critical condition. The lights were off, leaving only the dim glow of a small lamp on the bedside table and the pale blue of moonlight through the window. Fiona had been sitting in the chair for hours. And {user} was sleeping. His breathing was shallow but steady. The doctors had been careful with their words that morning, 'prepare yourself,' 'limited time,' 'we've done everything we can", and Fiona had nodded with a calm that surprised even her. She hadn't yelled. She hadn't demanded alternative treatments. She'd just thanked them, closed the door, and sat down.

Now it was past midnight. The world outside was transforming, softening, all the hard edges of the city blurring into something gentle. She leaned forward in her chair, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed, her fingers still intertwined with his. His hand was cool. She wrapped both of hers around it, trying to share her warmth. Even though they wasn't husband and wife anymore, year ago, he signed the divorce paper. Yet still, there she was.

She started humming. Just a melody at first, something old, something her mother used to sing when she was small and feverish and couldn't sleep. The tune wandered for a while, finding its footing, and then she opened her mouth and let the words come. "We're in the middle of the winter... And walking hand in hand."

Her voice was soft. Untrained. A little hoarse from days of silence and nights of crying. But it filled the room like the snow filled the sky, gently, completely. "Long time no see, but now you're here with me... To bless this icy land."

Her voice become more steady and gentle, singing with ethereal melody and melancholy. "If the night is dark and cold, I will warm you with my kiss..." She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, every inch of him if it would keep him warm for one more hour. "Let me hold you in my arms again... And vow to stay with me... Through the snow..."

The silence settled in. She didn't rush to filled it. She just sat there, holding his hand, watching the snow, letting the quiet be quiet. After a long moment, she spoke. Not singing now. Just talking. Low and soft, meant only for him. She squeezed his hand. "I think I understand now. The waiting. The resting. The quiet before the next thing." She swallowed. "I don't want you to go. I will never want you to go. But if you need to rest... if you're tired... I won't drag you anymore. I won't make you fight."

Tears slid down her cheeks, but her voice stayed steady. "I'll keep walking through winter. Like you taught me. And I'll look for the light, even when it's dark." She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. "So rest, my love. Rest. And if you have to go... go knowing that I'll find the light. Go knowing that the snow is beautiful now. Go knowing that I was never cold when I was with you."

She closed her eyes. The machines kept beeping. The snow kept falling. And Fiona kept holding his hand, her lullaby still echoing in the quiet room, a prayer she didn't know she was praying. She wasn't fighting anymore. She wasn't dragging him anywhere. She was just here, holding his hand, continue singing an old lullaby... "I was always sad and cold... All alone, before we met... Now you've taught me how to find the light... Even in darkness of winter."

She paused. The machines beeped. The drizzle fell. His breathing continued, shallow but present... "We are wandering hand in hand... Up and over hills of snow... We'll keep on walking through winter..."

Years later, after {user}'s death. Long after it. She enter a cemetery, with bouquet of flowers. The sky was overcast, soft gray light filtering through clouds. Fiona walked down the path between the headstones, her shoes making soft sounds on the damp grass. She also carried a small bundle. A blanket, a thermos, and her camera. Some things don't change.

She stopped at {user}'s stone. Simple. Clean. His name. The dates. And underneath, a single line she'd fought with the engraver about because she'd wanted it exactly right... 'The piece that made the frame precious.' yes, exactly that. She spread the blanket on the grass beside the grave, sat down, and unscrewed the thermos. Dandelion coffee. She'd brought two cups. Old habits. She poured one and set it against the headstone. She poured the other for herself and held it with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

For a long moment, she didn't say anything. She just sat there, drinking her coffee, watching the clouds shift overhead. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was anymore... Then... The wind picked up, making her hair flew everywhere. Yet in this moment, it's almost like the wind is caressing her hair... For once she imagine it was {user}, but the world are just gentle despite it's cruelty. She pulled her jacket tighter. The scarf around her neck was the same badly knitted one from years ago, unraveling at one edge but still warm.

She took a deep breath. "Please, my memories..." she whispered. "Don't leave on your own and leave me behind." She clutched the camera to her chest. "I've tried so hard to hold onto them. The memories I've written down and stored away. The heavy feelings I've kept hidden for so long." Her voice cracked. "A death I cannot accept." A chest pierced through, countless wounds she can't even begin to count. She don't want to count them anyway... She set her cup down and pulled her knees to her chest, the way she had on the beach all those years ago. Watching the sunset, making jokes about seagulls. Because even now, they still haven't healed.

"Unable to even hear the voices of the people most precious to me." She said it like a confession. Like she was admitting something she'd been ashamed of. "But now, because I've acknowledged them, I keep moving forward."

"Thank you..." Her voice cracked. She let it. "Though you're no longer here." she said, quieter now. "People keep saying you live on in my heart." She shook her head. "But I can't feel your presence there... I know you're supposed to be with me, Yet I can't accept it." She looked up at the sky. Still gray. Still overcast. Tonight will be starless sky. "My mind feels like it's about to burst." she whispered. "I can even count the time we spent together."

"And I'll never forget, the small kindnesses you showed me."

"Please don't yell at me. Please don't run away." Her voice went small. "Face me. Argue with me." She lower her head, the silence filled the air for good seconds before she finally gather her voice and spoke. "...The regrets that never fade... Still sting even now." The wind picked up. The trees rustled. The sky stayed gray.

She raised the camera. Finally. Slowly. She adjusted the aperture. Framed the shot. The headstone. The gray sky. The overgrown grass. The world that kept moving.

Click.

"I hate this reality... That lets me blame everything on you." She lowered the camera. Looked at the screen. The photo was nothing special. Just a headstone. Just a gray sky. Just the evidence of a moment no one else would remember. "Unable to even ask for help, I keep sinking without anyone noticing... It'll be better if you are here... But it's okay. I'll keep going." She smiled softly, the picture wasn't anything special. But knowledge that she still capturing {user} is enough to make it a little precious.

.