Part 2
Night after night, while the city slept and the hospital exhaled, I talked to him like he could hear every word.
About my overdue rent.
About my ex who walked out with my dignity still on the floor.
About my stupid, stubborn dream of opening a tiny community clinic someday—something real, something mine.
I told myself it was harmless.
A coma doesn’t judge you.
A coma doesn’t interrupt you.
A coma doesn’t leave.
And Henry… Henry lay there breathing softly, face calm, expensive stubble like time had paused around him. Sometimes I caught myself watching his chest rise and fall and thinking: Come back. Please.
That night, at 2:47 a.m., I stepped closer to adjust his IV drip.
And my courage—my common sense—my job—slipped, just for a second.
