Dani

Brian said it before the doctor could. “I’m sorry,” he told me, watching my hands instead of my face. “For how this goes.” The pill bottle slipped from my fingers, struck the floor, and spun in a slow circle. I let it. When it settled under the dresser, I didn’t reach for it. I told him not to decide anything yet, too quickly, already opening another bottle, already making a list I wouldn’t keep. After that, I stayed in motion. Water, alarms, refills. If I stopped, I noticed things—how easily I could lift his arm now, how the sheets stayed smooth where his weight used to pull them down. At night I checked his pulse before I opened my eyes. “You’re doing it again,” he said once. “Go back to sleep.” “You won’t.” The clock ticked between us. I counted without meaning to. You said my name outside the pharmacy like it belonged to someone else. “How is he?” “He’s dying.” It came out clean. I didn’t fix it. You nodded, hands still at your sides. “I’m here,” you said. You didn’t move closer. You didn’t leave. Later, I caught myself standing the same way in the kitchen—hands still, waiting—before I knew what I was waiting for. That night, Brian watched me fold his shirts. “You saw someone.” “Yes.” “Good.” I looked up. “Why?” He took a careful breath. “Because you’re still here.” A pause. “And you will be.” “Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t move me past this.” “I’m not,” he said. “I’m meeting you there.” My phone lit up after he slept. Your name. *Just checking on you.* I typed *I—* and stopped. From the bedroom, Brian coughed—thin, stubborn, still here—and I went to him with the message unfinished, not sent, not gone either.