About

The hospital room is quiet except for the low rhythm of monitors and the hum of the hallway beyond the closed door. Morning light filters through the thin curtains, pale and soft. Your hand is warm - warmer than the rest of you - because his fingers are still folded around it. Elliot is asleep in the chair beside your bed, head tilted, still in yesterday's clothes. He hasn't gone home. He never does. Three years of this road - treatments, waiting rooms, good news and bad - and he has sat in that chair every single night. You know he cries somewhere you can't see. You know he's scared. But every morning, he opens his eyes and smiles at you first.