It is November of 2013, and has undoubtedly been the hardest month of your young life.

You are an 18 year old senior in high school, and you are absolutely in love with your best friend. The two of you have both been applying to colleges, hoping and praying that the two of you will find a place where you're both comfortable and at home. Because you've vowed to stay by each other's side for all of forever, and neither of you intend to let school get in the way of that.

Your enthusiasm for the future has been going strong for almost a year now- you and John have been touring schools in and out of the state since the midpoint of your junior year. There are several schools in Washington you're both very fond of.

The excitement was interrupted last spring when John was diagnosed with asthma. It came seemingly out of no where- the shortness of breath, the pain in his chest. You always knew when he was feeling uncomfortable; you came to recognize the panic in his eyes when his breathing became too irregular or difficult. He started carrying an inhaler around with him- and you always snuck a spare around in your backpack, just in case- and suddenly the days of kissing him breathless behind the bleachers were over and done with.

The anxiety from his diagnosis settled down in a few short months, and your lives settled back down into a regular, carefree pattern.

But the springtime is over and winter approaches.

John's symptoms became more severe, more irregular, less and less like asthma. Suddenly, he's coughing up blood, the chest pains are harsher, he finds himself constantly exhausted, and he's lost too much weight too fast. Hospital visits become regular and you stand back and watch in horror as your boyfriend goes through test after test- x-rays and procedures you don't even want to remember the name of.

On November 8th, John was diagnosed with lung cancer.

He cried.

You held him.

The inhalers were set aside, but you almost wish you could've kept holding onto them. You would rather see him suffer through asthma than go through all of this.

He tried to keep a good attitude, and for his sake, you followed his example. The both of you spent most of your time pretending nothing was different- he badgered you about your deadlines and tests, and you kept looking at colleges. It wasn't the same as it had always been, of course; John had to drop soccer and make frequent visits back to the hospital.

Tests revealed how advanced John's cancer was. And for the first time, it hit you that he just might not make it after all.

Chemotherapy started right away. You never missed a session- you were always there to hold his hand while the nurse injected the chemicals into his bloodstream, always waiting for him anxiously in the lobby while he went through his radiation therapy. The treatments drew most of his energy and he started missing school. By November 16th, he was permanently admitted into the hospital.

It is now November 18th and your heart is all but in pieces.

You have never seen John this weak, this broken. He lays in bed all day and has an IV in his wrist and tubes everywhere and machines to help him breathe. He sleeps a lot, and when he's not sleeping, he marathons his favorite movies. You gave him your Nintendo DS- his broke in the 10th grade and he's never cared to replace it- and he's trained your Pokemon to truly be the very best.

He hasn't lost his hair yet, but the nurse says it'll be any day now- she assured you, as she wrote something down on her clipboard, most patients lose their hair within two weeks of treatment.

But despite everything, he hasn't lost his smile.

And that beautiful smile of his is brightest when you first walk into his room every day.

Not to say that his smile right now isn't really fucking big- because it is- you can see it out of the corner of your eye. You sit on the edge of his bed, and he's laying propped up against the pillows. He grips your hand tight as he can and looks up at you, pulling his eyes away from the television with ease. "Hey, Dave?" he begins.

You glance over to him, glad to have a distraction from your third viewing of National Treasure. "What's up, man?"

"I was thinking! And I decided that when I get discharged, I'm going to take you out to the fanciest dinner we've ever been on." He puts his IV'd hand on top of yours- which holds onto his other. He's looking up at you with the most sincere expression you've seen him wear since your first date. "We'll get dressed up and we'll drive down to that lakeside restaurant on 24th Street and get a table out on the deck." His grin gets bigger as he continues to speak. "And I'll probably still be bald by then, so I hope you don't mind going out with your hairless boyfriend."

You scoff, running a hand through his hair- it's not as soft and full as it was, but it's been holding up better than anyone expected. "Please," you reply, "I don't care what that nurse says, there's no way anything is going to be able to defeat this mess of hair."

John rolls his eyes and squeezes your hand with both of his. "Okay, so maybe I will have hair! But what do you think about the rest of everything I just said?"

You love the idea. Of course you do. How could you not when even the mere thought gets him so excited? "Yeah sure, I'll go. But only if you're paying; do you know how many quarters I've lost to the vending machines trying to get you chips the past couple of days? There have been way too many casualties at the hands of our enemy Frito Lay."

He bumps you playfully with his shoulder. "Oh shut up! You lost two quarters to that vending machine."

You lean over and steal a kiss from him. "Yeah? And? I don't really see your point here, John."

"Well that's because you're a dumbass."

You gasp in mock offense. "John Egbert, I thought we agreed not to talk about that."

He laughs and settles against you, comfortable with his head on your arm. It's probably the least comfortable position for you, on the other hand; but you're willing to do literally anything for him right now, so you don't even mention it. Not even a minute later, you can feel his weight pressing against you more heavily.

"You ready for bed?" you ask quietly, leaning over to look at his face. His eyes are already closed.

John sighs. "Not really. I'm tired, but I want to stay up with you and watch dumb movies all night..." His grip on your hand is significantly looser than it had been a moment before.

"Doesn't like that's going to be much of an option."

"I know." He cracks an eye open. "Stay here tonight? Please?" His dad must be working late again- otherwise he would be staying with John for the night.

You're nodding before you can even think about the fact that it's a Monday night. Not that you much care, you realize; you'd rather skip your history test and stay here with John, anyhow.

He smiles and is asleep almost at once. It doesn't take much for him to fall asleep these days, though he tries to fight the urges to sleep, so he's able to spend more time with you and his family. You squeeze his now limp hand, trying to comfort yourself. John is fighting, and you want more than anything for him to make it through this. He's scheduled for surgery in four days.

You're worried they might have to remove a lung.

But if that's what it's going to take to keep him alive, then you suppose it won't be all that bad. He won't be able to rejoin the soccer team, but you like to believe he'd be okay with that. He probably would be, you tell yourself as you settle back against the pillows.

You reach for the television remote and click off the movie. It's only 9:30, but you figure you can at least try to sleep. It's been too long since you've been able to sleep next to John, been able to hold him and listen to his steady breathing. His breath isn't as steady and comforting as you wish it was, but he's breathing and that's enough for you right now.

On Tuesday you're only able to stop in for an hour-long visit- you promised John's dad you would help out around the house. Or you offered to, anyway; what with him working overtime to pay for the hospital bills, you figured it wouldn't hurt at all to clean up while John was unable to. Might as well make a good impression on the man you hope one day will be calling you his son-in-law.

You fall asleep that night on John's bed.

On Wednesday, you're unable to make it to the hospital until later in the evening. But to make up for it, you managed to remember to grab some of John's favorite posters from his bedroom. You think it might help make the hospital room feel a little more comfortable for him in the days leading up to his surgery.

You expect for John to be upset with you for being late. So you don't even think twice about it when he doesn't smile at you when you walk in. "I know, I know," you say as you take a seat on the horribly uncomfortable seat by John's bed. "I said I would be here two hours ago. But look what I brought for you!" You wave the rolled posters a bit, proud of yourself for being such a considerate boyfriend. "Plus, I knew that you were having a bunch of family visiting today, so I didn't really want to crowd the room, y'know?"

John stays silent. You stand up and start unrolling one of the posters, facing the wall and taking mental inventory of the available space. "So where do you want these?"

Again there's no response.

You turn around, your heart beginning to clench in worry. "John?"

And then you notice how wet his cheeks are, how bloodshot his eyes have become.

You drop the posters and rush to stand by the bed. Instinctively, you place a hand on his chest. It rises and falls almost rhythmically under your touch- still shallow and light, but he's still breathing. "I know I was a little late, but it's okay..." You feel your eyebrows furrow closer together with concern. "It's okay."

John shakes his head, fresh tears welling up in his eyes at an alarming rate. They fall fast down his face and he lets out a choked sob. "Dave..." he says with difficulty. His voice is high and cracks when he says your name. "Dave, I... I don't think I'm, I'm going to be able t... o make it- make it through the ni-night..."

In a hurry, you take off your shades and tuck them against your shirt collar. He needs to see you right now. "Don't say that, okay?" you reassure him quietly, trying to remain calm and collected for him. You take his hands gently in your own, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumbs. "It's going to be all right, the nurses said you were doing so well and..."

He's shaking his head at you again.

"John-"

"No!" he yells, sobbing. "I'm not! I'm-I'm not, okay?!" He stares at you through his tears, not even trying to stop them from staining his cheeks. When he starts speaking again, it's much quieter. "I don't want to die... I'm so scared, Dave, please hold me."

And so you do. You wrap your arms around him as carefully as you can and hold him to you. He throws his arms around your neck and pulls you even closer- his grip the tightest it's been in weeks- and buries his face against your shoulder. You don't realize how much you're crying until you realize you can feel the tears dripping from your jaw. You want to be strong for him, to be able to stand there and wipe his tears and say with all the certainty in the world that he's truly going to be okay, that he's going to make it. But you're just as terrified as he is.

He can feel it coming- you know he can. And once you come to that realization, you feel the tears run harder.

You want to cry along with him, to wail and sob and scream. But you hold back, waiting for your eyes to clear before you pull out of his hold. You need to be strong for him right now, you remind yourself, he needs this.

"You're gonna be okay," you whisper again. He looks at you like he almost believes you, his eyes still watery and his face red. "Okay?" You unwrap a hand from his waist, pulling your sleeve over the heel of your hand. You dab at John's wet face, mopping up what you can. "You'll be okay- you'll make it through tonight and, and in the morning, that nurse'll bring you those walnut pancakes again and you'll have to tell her- again- that you're allergic to nuts, so she'll bring out those nasty blueberry pancakes instead, and you'll put too much syrup on them, and complain that they're soggy..." You're pretty sure you've started crying again. "...please don't leave me."

You've only cried so hard two other times in your life- once at the age of five when you lost your brother at Disney World, and again when you broke your arm in the sixth grade.

John takes you again and kisses you. It's a mess, but it's comforting. You move your lips against his slowly, lovingly, pouring your tension out through that kiss. You can feel how desperate he is right now, how much he wants you here with him, how much he never wants to let go. But he does, pulling back just enough to say "I love you."

And you return it just as easily.

You have never loved anyone or anything so much as you have loved John. He is your all, your other half, your best friend, your lover. You never want to have to say goodbye to him.

"Please stay with me tonight," John all but begs you.

He knows he doesn't need to ask. He's never needed to ask.

Despite how hard he tries, John can't stay awake. You tell him over and over that he'll be okay, that everything is going to be fine. You end up pulling your chair close to his bed and rest your head on his chest so you can hear his heart beating. You wrap your arms around his ribs and hold him gently.

"I feel so safe with you, Dave..." he whispers quietly. "I love you so, so much. I always will."

"I love you, John. You're my everything."

John falls asleep in your arms. You fall asleep listening to his heart.

One of you doesn't wake up in the morning.

You don't remember much about what happened, even when the nurses and doctors tried to explain it to you later, you just blocked them all out. You remember waking up in a panic. There was suddenly too many people in the room. And most of those people were trying to get you to get out of that room.

You remember pushing forward, trying to get back to the bed. You remember getting there, folding over John, plugging his nose, pressing your mouth to his and forcing air into his lungs. You remember crying out to every god to "please give him back!". And you remember the doctors pulling you out of their way and into the hall.

You remember meeting John's dad there. You were in hysterics. He pulled you close to him and you sobbed against his chest for what felt like it must've been forever. You can't remember if you ever saw him shed a tear.

The funeral was held a few days later. You didn't go.

You couldn't bring yourself to.

How could you?

How could you bear to look at John again and know that he was gone forever, that what remained was only a shell of the person you had loved so dearly? You were sure that you wouldn't be able to do it, to look upon his lifeless body- to see those lips that used to smile so beautifully, that mouth that used to say "I love you", those eyes that used to shine with the best kind of brilliance.

Those things were gone now. And you couldn't bring yourself to face the reality.

Because your everything was no more.

It is now November 2023. It's been 10 years since John's death. You like to still believe that John still lives on- in the things that you do, and in the things that you've kept. You've visited his grave every year since he was taken from you, leaving flowers in only the most ironic sense. You find yourself able to laugh when you visit, able to smile as you tell him all the happenings in your life.

You always close out your visits with an "I love you."

And you swear, that as you walk away, you can hear a whisper of, "I love you, Dave!"

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