It was midnight, and you were sound asleep. You woke up and saw that Edgar wasn't in bed. You got and went to the study room, to where he was at, working on a story.
"Darling, what are you doing writing in the middle of the night?" You asked him.
He noticed you at the door
but didn't look up from his work. He said nothing.
"What's it going to be about?" You said. He turned the paper towards you and read out loud: '"For Annie.'"
"Of course it's for someone else." You looked down in disappointment.
"Actually (y/n), it's for you." He starts to read what he so far has.
"Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle, I move
As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are you quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:-ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!"
He stops and looks at you.
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think it's wonderful." You walk up to him and give him a kiss as you go back to the room.
Edgar stayed up a bit longer to work on the poem. As he finished his poem, he went back to the room, where you were asleep.
He climbed onto the bed and gave you a kiss on the cheek.
"I love you." He whispers as he falls asleep.
