AN: So here's the final chapter! Sorry for taking so long. Real Life just keeps getting in my way. Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, subscribed, and favorited! It's exciting to know that people actually like what strange things spew from my brain :D

I do not own Harry Potter. I'm just a fangirl!

The healers said they had done all they could; it was up to Draco.

I spent a whole week sitting in his white hospital room waiting for him to wake up. Hermione practically had to spoon feed me to get me to eat, but I just couldn't keep any of it down. The guilt of pushing Draco over the edge nestled itself in the pit of my gut, refusing to leave no matter what anyone said. My brain wouldn't stop whispering when I was alone with him: you should have tried harder you selfish prick. And you say you love him? You have no right to even look at him, be in the same room as him.

Part of me knew it wasn't true. Draco was very troubled and refused help, regardless of how many times I asked him and what state he was in at the time. Some people just don't want to be helped. Some people just want to die. Sure, this was the first time he tried anything like this that I know about, but it's understandable for something to happen with the life he's had to live.

But then again, I was right there and didn't do a damn thing. I could have made him talk about it; I could have forced him to get help, or report him to St. Mungo's for observation, or something. Instead, I stood by and allowed him to sink deeper into depression and addiction, only to toss him out of my life when he became too much to deal with. It was my fault he was strapped to this hospital bed. If you really loved him you would have stayed by his side and helped him.

I just kept going back and forth, my brain pulling me in two different directions. So I tried not to think about it. Instead, I started talking to him after everyone had gone home for the night. I would tell him about the Quidditch scores in the Daily Prophet, who had come to visit him that day, even the weather. As I felt the tell tale signs of sleep coming on I would apologize every night, for everything, and would hope to Merlin that tonight was the night he heard me.

On the eve of the eighth day, I was beginning to lose what little hope my heart had miraculously grasped onto. There had been no change that the healers could see; he hadn't moved, not even a twitch. His ivory skin slowly adopted a grey tone and his hair, even though I used a cleaning spell on it every day, lost its healthy shine, turning dull and flat.

I could barely recognize this limp body laid out in front of me as my love, my everything.

When I mentioned to Hermione, the only one of my friends who visited every day, how different he looked, her milk chocolate eyes filled with tears that refused to blink away. Her hand slowly found my free one.

"I'm sorry, Ron."

Those three words hit me so hard I didn't even notice her leave. If Hermione, who what always the optimistic one of our trio, had given up then…it really must be true:

Draco wasn't going to wake up.

My soft grip on his hand turned vice-like as I leaned back in my chair, hot tears streaming down my face as I watched his chest slowly rise and fall. I've killed him. My brain echoed back at me that horrible truth for what felt like hours until emotional exhaustion catapulted me into slumber.

I awoke the next morning to what oddly sounded like the stiff hospital bed next to me shifting. My eyes slowly fluttered open as my free arm stretched high about my head, attempting to work out the kinks in my back without having to let go of Draco's strong grip.

…wait a minute.

My gaze shot to the blonde sitting up in the bed next to me. This must be a dream! Quickly, I bit down harshly on the inside of my lip, drawing a bit of blood before forcing me to realize I wasn't dreaming. A small yelp escaped from my throat, more in surprise than pain. My angel flashed his famous smirk; the first time I've seen it in years.

I couldn't believe it; we were finally going to be okay.