This was originally a part of what is now part 3 but I just thought they worked better separately. I'm not sure how many parts this will be but it does have a definite ending / end point in my head. Hopefully this is ok.

The man you see is hesitant to enter the room, and you try to force a smile of greeting on to your face, though you know you do not manage it. You are somewhat impressed though that you were even able to make some sort of effort for him, you are grateful that he has come. He has other things to worry about, and you are all too aware of this, but you know too that he cares so deeply for the woman you love. It is a love like the one you share with your best friend, though in many ways still so very different. He comes closer and you think you see something like fear in his eyes. You come to realise that even though life and death are something you all deal with on a daily basis, it is a very different beast when it affects you this closely. Your professional persona suddenly no longer works, and you are once again altogether human like those relatives to whom you talk. You see it in his eyes the conflict between trying to be the doctor, and being the man; the friend. You know the personal side is winning, though you do not acknowledge this, allowing him to deal with it in the way he chooses just as you need too.

You say words with a fuzzy tongue. You cannot recall what these words are or their meaning and yet to him they make sense or at least based on the tilt of his head, and the reaction in his face you assume they do. You know this is your cue, that for the time being he is the one who will care for your love while you walk in to another room to hold for the first time your daughter.

You are still standing though, and you know you have to force your feet to move, only they seem to have forgotten the process of walking. You thinking for a moment of how, a year from now, you could have been guiding your baby through her own first steps. Gently holding her hands to support her and letting go to watch her take tentative wobbles on her own two feet, knowing all the while that you are there waiting to catch her. But now that isn't too be, and instead you are having to teach yourself the motions. Right foot, left foot. You can hear the voice in your head telling you, forcing you to remember things that are natural and yet no longer feel that way. The world is not the place you knew, and your head cannot keep pace.

Somehow you are moving. One step. Left foot. One step. Right foot. You congratulate yourself on each movement, as you would have done for your baby. Her own personal cheerleader for life, celebrating each milestone no matter how very small. But these have been robbed from you and this is all becoming so very real, under the silence that still presses its weight on your shoulders.

Hand on door-handle, push down. You remember that action, and the door swings open. You step through it, steps still shaky and unsure. Each one bringing you closer, and you wonder how many more are to come until you are there in that room. You see a member of staff close by and you know she has been waiting for your appearance. You know there is a door to the side of her, and suddenly the space between you is the distance ran by marathon runners, and yet you know it will take seconds to cross. Time and space are muddled in your mind.

The journey to see her is too long, Your arms ache for the weight of the baby girl's body despite never having felt it against you. You have dreamt of it, for longer even than she had existed as a bundle of cells. But time is short; The time until that moment is brief, the one where you have to say hello and goodbye, to hold something in your arms which should be filled with life and yet will lie so very still against you. You are ready, and you are not at the same time. You are conflicted more than you have ever known.

And then that walk is over. You are mentally exhausted, your whole body wearied. The person guides you in to a room. You see now the colour of the uniform, a midwife who tells you in hushed tones that her name is Rebecca. She offers you the smallest of smiles, but you can see the sadness in her eyes. She gravitates towards a bassinet in the centre of the room, and you find yourself staring at it. You know there is one similar in the flat, waiting for a newborn to lie within it, yet there is something different about this one and you cannot work out why. You had never expected to see your baby in a bed like this within the confines of the hospital, you were prepared for the fishbowl cot, the baby contained within clear plastic so you can watch them for every precious moment, spotting cues for feeding and getting to know and bond with this new little life.

You are aware now that you are enclosed in this room, and all air seems to desert you. You think once more of running, you think you need to be sick; your stomach revolting. You are frozen. You cannot move closer, yet you cannot run. You are stuck with no air, an organ churning dangerously within you. You are scared. Scared of this, and all that is to come. You are trying to be strong, and yet you are starting to feel yourself crack. You are trying hard, and falling fast. But you need to last longer. You cannot let her see you like this, though you know her eyes will never see you.

In the other room you were forcing yourself to be strong for the woman, who was as frozen as you, whose essence had slipped away with the scream she had emitted from her core. Here you are strong for a child, who is still and quiet in the bassinet; waiting. Waiting for you and you are frozen, unsure. You are conflicted, each emotion and it's counterpart fighting a battle within you until you do not how to think or feel. She is waiting, and yet she isn't. So like the woman in the other room. She is waiting for you too, and yet you fear she is lost to you. And all the while you are trying to work out how to be strong for yourself, for you fear there is no-one who is there for you. You think you have to be the strong one, the one who supports, who holds. The one who has to try to mend the cracks and splinters in the broken heart and body of another, when your own is falling apart. You are the one and this scares you.

So much is happening, battering you and you are scared. Scared because you don't know how to fix this, because this situation seems to be wholly unfixable. There is no medicine which can be taken, no words that can be spoken to make the ache feel easier. You cannot quite imagine a future without the pain that has started to build and overwhelm you, very second pressing harder, hurting more.

You feel your legs waver, and you squeeze shut your eyes as you try to regain yourself, though you aren't quite sure who you are anymore. And in the black of your eyelids you see, you see the image that has danced in your dreams for so many months. The woman, auburn hair fanned out behind her, glistening in the light from the sinking sun. She is laughing and smiling, as she dances with your child in her arms. They are beckoning for you to join them, to dance with them in the garden. The child already the miniature of her mother – though your curls are starting to become more prominent in the flaming hair - though she is still so small.

And then you open your eyes, the image disappearing in that moment though you wish you could hold it with you forever. That it could be your future. One step. Left foot. One step. Right. You repeat the mantra as you step closer to the basinet. You are scared, you aren't ready. And yet you have to be. You want to get this over, yet you never want it to end. One step. Left. One step. Right.