The machines and their incessant beeping reminded her that his heart was still beating despite the inertia of the body she knew so well. His chest rose and fell mechanically, driven by the force of another machine and the tube inserted down his throat. Twenty-five days, twelve hours, and thirty-four seconds since he had become a mere shadow of himself. A shell.
Twenty-five days ago, Lieutenant Grey knocked at her door, and when she opened it, when she saw him and Angela by his side, she knew. He didn't have to say a single word. Something bad happened, something about Tim. She shook her head, asking for silence, she grabbed her phone and keys and follow them.
A stupid high speed chase. Tim's shop crashed into a bridge when the suspect's car hit him.
And now, the love of her life lay in a hospital bed, a ventilator helping him breathe, an IV feeding him, with the uncertainty of ever waking up, the uncertainty of a normal life without lasting damage if he did.
"Oh, Tim," were the first words she managed to utter, her voice strained, as her eyes fell on him after waiting through his many surgeries. She moved the chair closer to the bed, as close as she could be. With infinite tenderness, her hand captured his, her thumb gently brushing over his skin. "Oh, Tim."
Alone with him at last, Lucy finally allowed herself to cry, having been determined to stay strong in front of others.
And for the past twenty-five days, Lucy has come to sit by his side every day for hours. She talks to him about everything and nothing. She is the first visitor to arrive in the ward and the last to leave. Every day, she hopes to open the door and find him with his eyes open, welcoming her with a smile, but the disappointment is crushing when she sees him still hooked up to the machines, asleep.
For twenty-five days, Lucy has been living on autopilot. The day after the accident, before joining him, she asked Lieutenant Grey if she could take all her vacation leave, fully aware that her mind wouldn't be on the field but in room 456. Her request was quickly granted.
Each day, the medical staff updated her on his condition. Little to no improvement. But he was still there, alive, and that was all that mattered to her. It was the most important thing. An uncertain promise of an uncertain future. Every day, she was joined by friends and family, sitting together, trying to create some semblance of normalcy.
Oh, how she missed him. The sound of his voice, the softness of his touch, the tenderness of his kisses, the intensity of his gaze, his laughter, and the sincerity of his love when he said, "I love you." Her nights were chaotic, lost and alone in that big bed. Every moment away from him was filled with unspeakable anxiety. The constant fear that her phone would ring with the news of his death, the constant fear that his heart would stop beating, that he would stop fighting, and that he would die alone. And her fear wasn't irrational. A sudden death, after days of struggle, was one of the plausible outcomes.
It was so unfair. They had fought so hard to get here, to be together. A separation had not truly managed to break them apart. They fought, separately at first, and then together, to become what they were today. A happy, loving, imperfect couple. And then one morning, instead of a simple "good morning " he asked her to marry him. She was the love of his life, the one you don't let go of. The one you fight for.
Angela joined Lucy that late afternoon, sitting side by side in a silence that had become routine. Lucy had lost her spark, her radiance—she was merely a shadow of herself. Burdened by grief and fear, how many times had she wished to take his place? Far too many.
The more she looked at him, the more it felt like watching him die slowly, watching him fade away. Was he in pain? Was he suffering? The very thought left her breathless; her eyes filled with tears, and her fingers began to tremble.
