It has to mean something. Maybe you’re grasping at straws now, simply because you need something, anything to hold on to her. You remember that she cried too, her beautiful features twisted with grief. Her hazel eyes were glazed over with sadness. That alone killed you inside; the fact that you had made her so sad.

You sit in a hot bath and let the warmth seep into your skin while the knowledge of the truth cuts into the fear and panic of the last few days. Before the infection invaded her body and sent her to a place where you could not follow, you had spent a great deal of time of time alone together. She allowed no one else to take care of her, something that did not surprise you since you were well aware how much she detested others percieving her as weak. It was a honor that she had picked you over her parents and her lover, in spite of your history and you were not about to let her down. The friendship that had sustained the two of you in the beginning was repaired without words and a comfortable familiarity pununated your days. And just as you can’t pinpoint an exact moment you knew you loved her, you don’t know what day it was or what hour, but you saw something in her eyes that was not sadness, or gratefulness or even a friendly fondness. It was a spark of the deep love that you’d seen over and over again. You almost gasped with the intensity of it, nearly cried out in happiness at the sheer joy you felt when she’d looked at you that way again. You brushed it off as lonliness or what have you, but you realize it was real. You remember and suddenly the need to tell her you understand, oh god, do you understand, is so poweful and urgent that the reminder of the severity of her condition makes you fall to your knees.

You aren’t at all religious. Praying is as foreign to you as Greek or family dinners on Sunday, but you try anyway, making ridiculous bargains with whomever is listening, promising you will do anything if she doesn’t die. She needs to know. She needs to know that you remember.