I haven’t looked into those magnetic blue eyes for two weeks. It’s been the longest two weeks of my life. I’m lost. I’m helpless. I’m missing the most important part of me. My only comfort has come from seeing his peaceful face and feeling his warm skin. Five days ago, the doctor removed his breathing apparatus. I can see him better now, all bearded and pasty, but he refuses to wake up, even though he surprised them by breathing on his own, albeit shallow and strained. The knife sliced clean through his side, puncturing his stomach, and his lung collapsed during surgery, complicating matters. I’ve watched it be re-dressed daily and watched them drain the build-up of blood and nastiness from behind the wound. I’m used to it already, the imperfection a horrid reminder of the worst day of my
