It happened on an ordinary evening—
A brush in Celeste's hand,
A line of verse on Elias's tongue,
A shared breath in the hush between.
Then, the silence broke.
A cough—violent, wet, unrelenting.
The pen fell from his fingers.
His body seized like a violin string pulled too tight.
Celeste ran to him, paint still staining her palms.
"Elias?" she cried, her voice a thread unraveling.
He could not answer. Blood bloomed at the corner of his mouth,
And his breath came like a tide retreating too soon.
The ambulance came with lights but no warmth.
She held his hand as they wheeled him away,
Her fingers slick with the truth she hadn't wanted to face.
In the hospital, machines hummed their sterile lullabies.
White walls, white sheets, white coats—
Everything too bright, too clean to hold the mess of love and dying.
The doctor's voice was gentle, but final.
"Advanced pulmonary fibrosis. The lungs are no longer functioning.
Days, maybe a week. We're… sorry."
Celeste didn't cry then.
She sat beside him, her hand in his,
watching the rhythm of his breath—shallow, mechanical.
Elias opened his eyes, those storm-dark pools still full of light.
"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice broken glass. "I should've told you sooner."
She shook her head, her voice a hush.
"No. You were trying to give me a little more time.
I just wish… I'd spent it holding you tighter."
He smiled weakly. "We still have tonight."
She curled beside him on the narrow hospital bed,
Her forehead against his, her heartbeat trying to memorize his.
The machines beeped on.
The stars blinked outside the window.
And in that fragile silence, they made a vow—not of forever,
But of everything left, given without restraint.