She hates the song.

It blares through her headphones as she shoves open the door, applying much more pressure than necessary to the crash bar in a futile attempt to transfer some of her pain.

"...We would be warm, below the storm, in our little hideaway beneath the waves..."

The repulsive angelic harmonies cling to her as she stalks down the overly bright hallway, glaring at the crowd in front of the elevator as they immediately jump out of the way to let her through.

Slamming her fist on the button a few more times for good measure, knowing it will have no affect, she has nothing left to do but wait for the gears and wires to comprehend her impatience.

The next two minutes are the longest two minutes of her life, and she thinks she probably should have just taken the stairs.

Upon its arrival, the doors opening in slow motion and close in a similar fashion, and the elevator inches slowly upward at an infuriating crawl, the song continues, obnoxiously oblivious to the pain it causes her, obviously intent on torturing her some more.

Could she skip it? Yes.

But she can't, not really. Not now.

She's never understood his fascination with The Beatles, but there it is. An inherent part of him that nobody was able to change.

"Octopus's Garden" is his favorite. One day it had mysteriously appeared in her Favorites playlist, an act she understood as subliminal subterfuge by her best friend, in an vain attempt to cultivate her appreciation.

He'd never admitted to it, but they both knew it was him.

Now here they were again, and there was a chance that he wouldn't be able to wink at her anymore, or tease her until she felt like screaming, or pull that stupid smirk, run a hand through his hair and call her "Tash."

And there was a chance she'd never be able to tell him how much she hates The Beatles.

No, she would never be able to properly express her loathing for the song that reminded her so; not even as she stands at the foot of the bed and stares at his still body, skin whiter than the hospital sheets he lays on, the unmistakable color of blood seeping across the bandages around his chest, and tries to find something to say in a hopeless attempt to block out the sound.

She manages a whisper, feeling her stomach twist and the horrible fear overtake every other emotion. "You need to be okay so I can tell you how much I despise this song. Please."

As she collapses into the uncomfortable chair next to the bed, watching his chest rise and fall to try and stem the panic, she pulls out her phone and hits "repeat".