Author's Note: I know it's been ages since I updated. It's not been easy for me to write recently because I'm busy and also have no creativity. So hopefully this is alright. I'll do my best to get back into it.
John wasn't doing so well after that first week. His lungs were failing and I heard him coughing in the middle of the night. Most nights. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew he was dying. He was all I had left. I didn't have my family anymore and, not to anyone's surprise, I hadn't made any new friends. I didn't want any. No one could compare to John Watson.
My whole life, I've pushed everyone away. It's so much easier to say you're antisocial or just don't like people or pretend that you don't care anymore than to admit how lonely and damaged you really are.
He wheezed a few times and finally caught his breath. I stayed still, looking out the window.
"Hey," he whispered. "Did I wake you?"
"I've been up," I answered.
"Sorry. It's gotten worse over the past few weeks."
I sighed quietly. "I'm sorry... It doesn't bother me, John. Don't apologise." And there was silence for a moment.
"I think umm... I think I need a nurse," he said and his bed creaked. I sat up and my heart started pounding. "What's wrong?"
"There's... my mouth tastes like blood." He sounded like a helpless little boy and it broke my heart. I wanted to run over and hug him again. I want to tell him who I am. I want him to stop hurting.
That night I slept even less than I usually do. The lights were dim on the other side of the curtain but the voices of the nurses were sharp and not what I would call quiet or all shuffled around John's bed and cared for him in a way that wasn't loving. They changed his sheets but they didn't hold his hand when he got back in. The spoke softly but they didn't touch his cheek or look deep into his eyes. I would have at least given him that.