You still have nightmares. I've even caught you sleep walking a few times, though you don't believe me. You never go far, just to the window where you stare up at the stars. Sometimes you mutter, but I can never make any of it out. Most nights you end up jerking out of sleep, sometimes with a cry, sometimes a whimper, always reaching for me right after.
It took a long time not to take it personally when you called me by her name.
.
.
.
When we met I was working on pushing a project into the production phase, you had always pushed me to direct more, reminding me how much I loved it. I was in the middle of convincing a very important backer to invest in the film when the Doc gave us that news three weeks ago. I'm pretty sure the project has been scrapped at this point. I haven't left your side, haven't answered the phone, my family has even taken to coming by in intervals to make sure we don't need anything, to make sure I don't drive you crazy and to see that you have some more visitors, trying to keep your spirits up. My family hasn't visited as often in the last week, giving us space and time to be alone.
"Babe, you never let me finish, but you have to this time." Not this again,
"No, I won't do it."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say-"
"Yes, I do, and I won't do it." I hug you closer to me, nuzzling into the back of your neck, wishing for the last eight months to be a horrible nightmare and I could wake up with you against me like this back in my apartment; both complaining about having to go to work, fighting over who has to brave the cold air of the apartment to make the coffee.
"Chris."
"No. You aren't allowed."
"I'm not allowed to love you?" Your jokes are falling flat on me tonight.
"You're not allowed to leave me. You already promised." I don't cry. I feel my heart breaking, but I don't cry.
"Yes, Christopher."
Why couldn't you leave it at that? Why couldn't we stay like that?
About an hour later we are still silent and I can almost feel myself falling asleep when you speak up again,
"Babe, you have to listen to me, now. I know you won't want to hear this but you need to."
"No."
"Yes." You roll over and look me straight in the eyes, "We have had an amazing time together. You have been unbelievably supportive when a lot of people may have walked away. I can't tell you how much I love you, and how much easier you've made this. But this has to be it. You have to promise me you will move on."
"I can't do that."
"You have to. You need to live. Keep working, keep helping, keep loving the best you know how."
"Why are you talking like this?" I'm trying not to be angry, but the idea is too much,
"Chris, I've accepted this. It's time to go."
"No" I know I sound petulant, but I've been trying to avoid this talk for months now.
"I have to go. I'm so tired, baby. Everything hurts all the time, and nothing is working the way it should. It's time to go." Your voice is so soft, so weak, I almost have to lean even closer to hear you. I hold you tighter,
"Please, baby, don't do this. Don't give up."
"I'm not giving up. I'm okay with this, really. It's okay. It's time for you to get your own life back and start living again. Go live for me."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Promise."
"I don't-"
"Promise me." You're just as stubborn as I am, so this could go on for hours, but I already feel my resolve cracking. This is your last request of me. How am I supposed to say no to you?
"...okay." You look relieved even as you cry, burying your face in my shoulder. I hold you a while longer, waiting for you to fall asleep. I feel your breathing even out when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It's a text from Kenny. He's technically my production assistant, but he was at least as invested in that project as I was, so he's really become more of a co-producer.
'Hey, Chris. Just want to let you know, we got that backer a few weeks ago! I've been taking care of production prep, everyone has been updated on your situation, but only as much as they need to be. We've put everything on hold indefinitely, but our investors even agree: the project is ready for you whenever you can make it back.
I hope you're doin okay, man. We all do.'
My situation. I bristle at the term, feeling like this isn't his business, but after reading the text a few times, I almost see the good news. Our investors haven't backed out. They are being more understanding than I probably deserve right now.
I look back down at you in my arms, fidgeting every once in a while, trying to get comfortable.
I promised. You made me promise.
It was another week of restless sleep, you tossing and turning, waking for a moment in pain, but not really waking, only to lay back down and fidget some more.
Finally, one night, I was sitting in the chair beside the bed, staring at you; you lay still for the first time and over a month, when you opened your eyes seeming wide awake all of a sudden. You reach out and cup my cheek, your eyes bright as you smile at me. A real, loving smile, no pity, no regret, just happiness at seeing me. You are so beautiful.
And I know what's coming.
"I promise, baby." I grasp your hand, kissing your palm, then plant a kiss on your forehead. "I promise."
You nod and sigh, then blink a couple of times before I see the light behind your eyes fade away, your hand going limp in mine.
The machines beep and screech, alarms sounding, but I sit there in a daze, holding your hand, until I'm coaxed out of the way by a flurry of doctors and nurses. I think they work on reviving you, but I don't see them, I don't hear them, I turn and stare out your window up at the stars. The body on that bed isn't you anymore. Now you aren't in pain, you aren't tired, you aren't sick. I don't try to control the tears or the sobs. I probably sound pitiful, possibly hysterical, but I don't care. What am I supposed to do now?
