I miss Alex. I miss him. I miss him so much that it's starting to hurt again. I. Miss. Him.
"I miss you," I whispered out loud into the silence, because the house was empty except for me, and everything he left behind.
"Come back home. Please. Please, just-" I failed in holding back a cry, "-Just come back. Alex, I mi-miss you. I need you, please."
Pleading with myself wasn't working and I knew that it was hopeless. I knew that I was hopeless. I knew that we were hopeless, that a chance of anything more would never come out of this, especially at this point in our lives. A chance of a romantic relationship was hopeless, but I wasn't ready to admit that he was, too.
The bus trip to the hospital was one of the longest, most pain enduring things I've ever had to sit through. I was a mess. Fellow Londoners could easily see it, and I could tell from the way that they were looking at me. I hadn't bothered to look in the mirror before I left the house, but I had at least showered and changed out of the bloodied clothes. Why didn't you go with him when you had the chance? Then you'd know for sure that he was at least still breathing.
I leaned my head against the bus's dirty window, my cheek cooling instantly against the cold glass, and I closed my eyes. My stop was only 5 minutes away. I could do this. I could do this without crying.
But I didn't.
By the time I reached the hospital once more, a few staff members recognised me. They knew why I was there. They led me to his room in silence, but one of the three, a pretty nurse with curly blonde hair and a genuinely sympathetic smile, she put her hand on my shoulder and whispered something I could barely hear. I think it was supposed to be nice, whatever she said. It didn't help me feel any better, but it was the thought that counts, I guess.
They stopped when we reached the doorway. They let me go inside by myself.
I wasn't prepared for what I saw.
I'd never seen him look so devastated. He was covered in self-inflicted cuts and the previous bruised markings still decorated his skin. It looked like he was struggling to breathe. His eyes were filled with tears. He didn't look at me, he just whispered my name weakly, as if he didn't believe I was really there.
I responded with a chocked sob and ran to his bedside to hold his hand as softly as I could. I knew it hurt him to squeeze mines, but he did it anyway, tears running down his face. I was becoming far too used to watching him cry. We both shed tears and told each other how much we loved each other. He told me he wanted to come home. I told him he couldn't. At least, not yet. It was too early. He cried some more and begged me to stay with him until he could. I didn't refuse or protest. I didn't say another word. I'd stopped crying a while ago, unlike him. Everything was going to be okay now.