A/N: It's still Friday. I'm still on time. Kinda. I probably wrote 95% of this today when I should have been studying/sleeping for SATs, but it was worth it. Enjoy! I'm off to sleep now.

It takes human hair twelve weeks to grow four centimeters. It takes grass four weeks to grow the same amount. However, four centimeters of spinal cord took just over eight months to mature into usable material. For those fifty-two weeks, things were considerably normal for Artie and me, compared to the months prior. In the span from the colder end of September though May, where wild flowers would pop up in vacant lots, we celebrated our anniversary, Christmas, Valentines Day, and my birthday – all in that order. Artie was prepared to propose four times in those eight months. I knew this because during each of those four occasions, he would act the same - overly romantic, somewhat corny, and obviously nervous. Also, I happened to notice the repeated appearance of a square shaped bulge that corresponded with such behavior. Subtlety was never his forte. However he stopped himself every time. As our days together drew to a close, I began to think that maybe he was trying to spare me the extra heartbreak if something went wrong – but I tried not to think about that.

Twenty-four hours before his surgery, Artie was once again admitted to the hospital. I prayed for it to be the last time. Most of that critical day was dedicated to blood work and routine check ups to make sure everything was fine and dandy for the less than routine procedure ahead. That is – that was the plan for Artie. I, however, got to sit in the waiting room with a collection of Dorothy Parker's short stories that I borrowed from the library. The author's witty style kept me amused and her tragic tales made my situation seem less extreme.

By the late after-noon, I was permitted upstairs. This time around, Artie was housed in a room on the third floor rather than the second, but if you asked me, I couldn't tell the difference other than the big numbers over the elevator doors. I wondered around the third floor, using the vague instructions administrated to me by one of the nurses on the project until I found my desired destination. The fact that Artie's full name was marked on his door probably helped me more than anything. With a medium sized duffel bag full of his personal items over my shoulder, I invited myself into the sterile smelling room. Compared to the one he stayed in previously, the only difference was the color of the bedding and the presence of a worn down armchair in the corner. He looked recently settled in, sitting back against two puffy bleach white pillows in a light blue hospital gown that hemmed just above his knees.

"Hey there, handsome," I swung, placing the heavy bag on the floor, and sitting on the left edge of his bed.

"Hi," he greeted, flushing lightly.

"All set for surgery tomorrow?" I inquired.

"Healthy as a horse," he shrugged.

"Good," I smiled, cupping his cheek in my hand.

My plan for dinner was to order out for both Artie and I, but that was before I learned that they wanted to keep a close eye on his diet for safety precautions. So instead of sharing a hearty soup and salad from the drive though café down town that I learned about though one of the nurses, we dined on hospital food. Side by side, we sat, and spooned though single-serve cups of lime Jell-O as we leaned into each other's sides.

"Want the last blob?" I asked, holding our almost empty plastic cup at eye level.

"Nah," Artie said, reaching his spoon in and plopping the contents on my bridge of my nose. "But I think you do."

"Artie!" I squealed, closing my eyes and scrunching my nose.

He chuckled before wiping my nose with the napkin over his lap. I tilted my head and looked at him from the corners of my eyes before giggling it off and nudging his shoulder.

That night, I milked my stay as long as I could. No one dared to kick me out, but by 9:00pm, two hours after I should have been on my way, I could tell the interns were getting anxious to get their runs down so they could go home. Clinical trial patients were gold for them. From his side, I pried myself away to perch on the edge of his bed after announcing my departure.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning before your surgery," I assured, placing my hand over his.

"Promise?"

"I promise," I nodded. "I love you."

"I love you too, Tina."

I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, "goodnight."

"Goodnight," he sighed.

From there, I forced myself out of the hospital and into the dimly lit parking lot connected to the west wing. Many times I had left him to go home, but seeing his nerves catch up with him made parting so much harder. As I slid my keys into the ignition, I looked back at the hospital and tried to calculate where his room was, but finding the task nearly impossible, I quickly turned away and stopped procrastinating my departure.

Driving home was a blur. I remembered leaving the Ohio State campus, but everything between the hospital and our apartment complex melted into a pot of my fatigue. By the time I got home, it was 11:00pm, and I had to be up early to catch Artie before his surgery. I took the elevator up to our floor, out of habit, and let myself in. Except for the streetlight outside coming though the window, the apartment was pitch black, and I kept it that way as I navigated back to the bedroom. Only then did I turn on a light to find more comfortable clothes and put my pocket book away. On the floor next to Artie's side of the bed was the T-shirt he wore to bed the night before. After stripping down only to my underwear, I pulled the dark oversized T-shirt that smelled strongly of Artie over my head, and let it fall over my thighs.

Before I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I set the arm on my phone for 7:00am sharp. That would give me an hour with Artie before his surgery. Once everything was set for the next day, I crawled into bed, and after a toss and a turn, I fell asleep.

Three hours later, the loud wail of the cordless house phone on Artie's bedside table forced me out of my peaceful slumber. With a groan, I opened one eye to see the hand set glow orange across the bed. I thought about ignoring the caller on the other end, but instead I found myself sleepily dragging myself across Artie's side of the bed to pick up the phone. Lying sloppily over his pillow, brought the phone to my ear

"Hello?" I yawned, rubbing my eyes with my opposite hand.

"T-Tina?" The caller asked in a soft voice.

"Who are you?" I dramatically groaned.

"Tina. It's me."

"Art?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh honey, I'm sorry," I said, becoming more awake. "W-what's up?"

"I can't sleep, Tina…I-I'm too scared for tomorrow. I can't do this."

"Artie…"

"Tina, I want to come home…p-please come and take me home. I'm freaking out. I don't – I don't want to do this anymore. They-they're gonna…they're gonna butcher my spine…a-and they-they're gonna leave me to…die. I'm going to d-die. I don't want to die…Tina, I-I don't want to die," he panicked.

"Shhhhhh. Artie…Artie, calm down…please."

I heard him gasp for hair a few times before taking a deep and shuttered breath. Oh how I wanted to be with him, to hold him close, and comfort him.

"You're not going to die," I said.

"You don't know that," Artie darkly said.

"Here…stop thinking of the negative things that could happen. Artie, if the surgery works…you could walk again."

"Yeah, okay but…what if they mess up my spinal cord? What if I become a quadriplegic? Huh?"

"I'd still love you, Artie," I said.

"What?" He asked.

"I'd still love you. It'd be tough…but we'd manage."

"You mean that?"

"I do. I mean it ever so much."

It didn't make him any less scared, but it sure made him happier than before. After I got him to calm down and think rationally, we talked on the phone for a few hours until he fell asleep, and once I was positive he was out cold - I quietly hung up the phone, before I too passed out from exhaustion.