"He's slipped into a coma," the doctor said. "A deep one. We don't know if—" He stopped, sighing heavily, the corners of his lips pulling down. "We don't know when, or if, he'll wake up."
The words struck Maxwell like a blade driven straight through his chest—sharp, merciless, final.
His knees buckled beneath him, his weight crashing down until his palms smacked the cold, sterile tile floor just to keep himself upright.
The chill of the tiles bit into his skin, grounding him in a reality he wished he could escape.
His throat tightened as if invisible hands were squeezing it shut, and a sob clawed its way out despite his desperate attempt to choke it back. His lips trembled, twisted between denial and despair.
No. No, not like this. Not when he just—just made me promise. Not when he pushed his whole life onto me.
Maxwell's chest heaved violently, each breath ragged and uneven, his tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
