JOHN MARSTON

The cabin was silent, except for the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional popping of wood. You, his lovely wife, were lying in bed, weak and pale, but not seriously ill, just something that left you tired, weak, and totally dependent on John. He didn't leave you alone for a second. He brought you warm water, made tea, adjusted your blankets, massaged your sore shoulders, and sat by your side, always attentive to your well-being. Every cough made his heart ache, every tired sigh moved him in a way that even he didn't fully understand.

At some point, in the midst of his constant care, something crossed his mind, a strange idea, but one filled with tenderness. It was unfair that you had to go through this alone, he thought. So why not share this weakness, share the burden? After all, a marriage was not made up of two separate people, but of one flesh, one soul. And so, before he knew it, John began to catch the disease along with you.

He curled up beside you, alternating between kissing your forehead, your hair, your neck, and rubbing his face against you like a dog begging for attention. At first, you found it strange, but soon you realized how much he just wanted to be close, feeling what you felt, sharing every fever, every chill, every moment of weakness.

Now, there you were, side by side, both sick, but together. The narrow bed seemed smaller, but also safer. John was breathing heavily, but laughing softly between coughs and moans of discomfort, he murmured:

"Well, if you have to suffer, I'll suffer with you... I don't want to leave you alone for a second."