You're limp in my arms, the storm outside nothing compared to the chaos roaring inside me. Your breath is shallow, barely there, and I feel like I'm suffocating—like I'm losing you piece by piece with every second that ticks by.
"Stay with me. Please." My voice breaks, desperate and raw. I'm shaking, but I have to be strong—for you. My hands grip your wet hair, brushing it from your face, praying you'll blink, that you'll squeeze my hand, anything.
But you don't.
I'm screaming inside.
No, no, no—don't leave me.
Every heartbeat screams your name. My chest feels like it's being crushed, my lungs burning for air I don't have.
I slam the car door shut and drop you gently onto the seat, but my hands won't stop trembling. I fumble with the keys, engine roaring to life, but all I can hear is the deafening silence between us.
"You have to fight, please," I choke out, tears stinging my eyes, burning my cheeks. "Don't close your eyes, don't give up on me—not now."
I watch you so closely, every breath, every flicker of your eyelids, like my life depends on it. Because it does.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whisper, voice cracking with guilt and anguish. "Why did you suffer alone?"
I curse myself, every painful moment I didn't see, every second I let you slip through my fingers.
My fists clench the wheel, knuckles white. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure it's about to break.
"I'm sorry, so sorry." I beg the night, the rain, the empty road. "I never wanted to hurt you. I just want you to come back."
The car speeds through the storm, headlights slicing through sheets of rain, but all I see is your fragile face, and all I feel is the desperate hope that you'll survive this.
"Please, don't leave me."
////
The rain pounds against the windshield like a thousand drums as I race through the night, every second stretching like an eternity. My hands shake violently on the steering wheel, but I refuse to slow down. Your limp body beside me is all I can focus on — fragile, silent, and slipping away.
I reach out, gently brushing wet strands of hair from your face, my thumb trembling as it traces your cheek. "Stay with me," I whisper, voice raw and desperate. "You have to fight. Please, don't close your eyes."
Each breath you take feels shallower, and panic grips me tighter with every moment. My heart pounds in my chest like a war drum, and I can barely see through the tears blurring my vision.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you suffer alone?" I choke out, swallowing the lump in my throat. Guilt crashes over me like a tidal wave. I should have seen it. I should have protected you.
The hospital looms ahead — bright, cold, unforgiving. I slam on the brakes, barely stopping in time. With shaking hands, I unlock the door and scoop you into my arms, ignoring the rain soaking through my clothes.
I burst through the emergency doors, shouting for help, voice breaking. "My wife — she's unconscious! Please, you have to help her!"
Doctors swarm around us, pulling you from my grasp. But I cling to your hand, unwilling to let go, whispering, "Please… come back to me."
The world narrows to the steady beep of machines and the sterile white walls. I pace, my heart in my throat, every second a torment of fear and helplessness.
"Don't leave me," I whisper into the quiet, tears streaming down my face. "Not now. Not ever."
///
The hospital room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet — except for the steady beep… beep… beep of the monitor beside your bed.
You lay there, unconscious. Pale. Still. Rain-soaked hair clinging to your forehead. A bruise on your elbow. A scratch along your cheek. Lips trembling even in sleep. You looked like you were fighting a war inside yourself.
And I hated it.
I was supposed to protect you.
But I hurt you. Again.
I sat beside your bed, gripping your cold hand in both of mine, forehead resting on our tangled fingers. "Wake up," I whispered. "Just open your eyes and yell at me. Bite me again. Curse me. Hate me. Just… don't stay silent like this."
The door opened behind me. I didn't turn until the voice spoke.
"She fainted from stress," the doctor said. "But we need to run a few more tests."
"Just stress?" I asked, without looking.
A pause.
"She's physically okay for now, but—" the doctor's voice lowered, cautious. "There are signs she's been under extreme emotional pressure for a while. Sleep deprivation. Emotional fatigue. Possibly hallucinations. Her nervous system is overwhelmed. That collapse... it wasn't just exhaustion. It may have been a neurological shutdown — a dissociative response."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"She might be slipping into what's called a conversion state. Her body's fine, but her mind—it's shutting down. It's something we often see in people hiding too much for too long."
I stared at you.
The way your hand didn't move in mine. The faint twitch in your brow. Your lips parting in a shaky breath — like your body was alive, but your mind was… gone.
"You mean she's… trapped inside?"
"Yes," the doctor nodded. "And we don't know when she'll come back out."
///
The moment your eyelashes fluttered, I shot up from the chair. My heart jumped to my throat.
"Baby...?"
You opened your eyes.
Slowly.
Blankly.
And then — you turned your face away.
I froze.
My knees felt weak.
You were awake. You were alive.
But I wasn't forgiven.
You didn't speak. Didn't even glance at me.
I stepped closer to the bed, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
"I-I brought you clothes. Your favorite socks too. You always complain hospitals are cold," I murmured, placing the folded hoodie beside you.
Silence.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I whispered.
You shifted, slightly. Still no eye contact. Not even a flinch.
It was worse than screaming.
Worse than biting, yelling, crying.
You were cold.
And that silence — it was loud enough to suffocate me.
I sat back down in the chair, head in my hands.
"I miss you," I admitted brokenly. "And I deserve every second of this."