Can you tell me, just one last time, before you go?

Can you give me a sign, at least?

Can you whisper it?

Can you gesture it?

Can you do something, anything, to convey it to me?

Anything would suffice, I promise.

Even a simple hum in response would ease my mind, knowing you at least heard me.

But you're not telling me.

You're not giving me a sign.

You're not whispering it, you're not gesturing it.

You're not doing anything, except loosely clutching your side, and I don't understand. I just don't...understand.

I keep repeating it, you know.

Those three words that I have grown so accustomed to saying. I keep repeating that phrase.

That phrase, the one that you barely use, yet convey it in different ways. But you're not conveying it.

You have left me saying the phrase, only to receive no reciprocation.

I want to hear it. I want to hear the phrase come from your rough lips, just once more, before you go.

Please.

Please.

I'm pulled to my feet, you are rolled to your back.

Familiar arms tug me backwards, familiar arms tug you backwards as well.

I resist, but you don't. You remain still.

Motionless. Breathless.

I scream.

You do not.

I plead.

You do not.

I cry.

You do not.

I love you.

I know you love me.

But I cannot hear you saying it.

So please, Gavin. Just once more. Once more, before you go. Tell me that you love me one more time, before death accepts you into his cold embrace.

...

But he already has.