Nicolas stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked streets. Antonella lay on the bed, her face pale against the white pillowcase. The room smelled of antiseptic and fear.
"Nicolas," Antonella whispered, her voice fragile. "I never thought it would come to this."
He turned, his heart aching. "We'll get through this," he said. "Together."
Antonella's eyes searched his. "Promise me," she said. "Promise you won't give up."
He knelt beside her, taking her hand. "I promise," he vowed. "I'll fight for us."
She smiled, a wistful curve of her lips. "Remember when we danced in the moonlight?" she said. "When life was simpler."
Nicolas nodded. "Under the cherry blossoms," he recalled. "You wore that blue dress."
Antonella's fingers traced his cheek. "I love you," she confessed. "More than words can say."
He leaned closer, their foreheads touching. "And I love you," he murmured. "Even when the world feels cruel."
Outside, the rain tapped against the windowpane—a melancholy rhythm. Nicolas pressed his lips to Antonella's, tasting salt and sorrow. She clung to him, as if trying to anchor herself to this moment.
"Nicolas," she whispered, "what if—"
He silenced her with a kiss—a desperate, urgent kiss that spoke of longing and goodbye. "We'll find a way," he said. "We'll fight until the last breath."
Antonella closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I don't want to leave you," she confessed.
He held her, their hearts beating in sync. "You won't," he vowed. "Not yet."
And so, in that dimly lit room, among the roses and whispered promises, Nicolas and Antonella clung to love—a fragile bridge between life and whatever lay beyond.
