The king of everything

Chapter Twenty four- The weight of goodbye

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and sterile air, a scent I had grown uncomfortably familiar with over the past few weeks. Every time I walked through the front doors, a heaviness settled in my chest, like a reminder of what was waiting for me on the other side. My father's room was always too quiet, the hum of machines punctuating the silence as they kept track of his vital signs. Each beep felt like a countdown, reminding me that time was slipping through my fingers.

I paused outside his door, my hand hovering over the cold metal handle. I had done this same thing every day for weeks now—stood outside the door, summoning the strength to walk in and pretend everything was okay. But today felt different. There was an undeniable weight pressing down on me, the realization that these moments were finite. My father's time was running out, and no amount of prayer or therapy could change that.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. My father lay in bed, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He looked smaller than I remembered, his once-strong frame now fragile, like the life was slowly being drained from him. The sight of him like this twisted something inside me, a painful knot that I couldn't untangle.

"Hey, Dad," I whispered, not even sure if he could hear me. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of my voice, and for a brief moment, they locked onto mine. There was a flicker of recognition, but it was faint, like he was struggling to hold on to the present.

"Aaron," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "You came."

"Of course I did," I said, pulling a chair closer to his bed. "I'll always be here."

He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was too weak, too tired. It hurt to see him like this, but I couldn't look away. I couldn't let myself miss these last moments with him, no matter how painful they were.

"How are you feeling today?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"Better," he lied, his voice trailing off as his eyes closed again. I knew he wasn't better. He was slipping away, piece by piece, and I was powerless to stop it. But I didn't push him. We both knew the truth, even if we didn't say it out loud.

For a while, we sat in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the machines and the occasional cough that racked his frail body. I wanted to fill the space with words, to say something meaningful, something that would make this moment bearable. But everything felt wrong, inadequate.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

My father's eyes opened again, a faint look of confusion crossing his face. "What... for?"

"For not being here more," I said, my voice cracking. "For not... I don't know, for not knowing how to help. I feel like I should've done more."

He blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as if he was trying to understand what I was saying. "You've been here," he murmured, his voice soft but sure. "That's all I need."

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them away. I didn't want to break down in front of him. Not now. Not when he needed me to be strong.

"I love you, Dad," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn't sure if he would respond, if he even had the strength left to say it back.

But then, he reached out, his hand trembling as it found mine. His grip was weak, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that even in the face of everything, he was still here, still fighting in his own way.

"I love you too, Aaron," he whispered, his voice so faint I almost didn't hear it. His eyes closed again, and I knew he was fading, drifting in and out of consciousness. But those words—those three small words—meant everything to me.