Page 141 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
Because I know what sleep looks like.
I know the difference.
I know what it felt like when she stopped breathing.
I know what it felt like to hold her and realize she was slipping somewhere I couldn’t follow.
And the way her weight changed. And the way her chest didn’t move. And the way I couldn’t make it move.
She died.
The thought lands fully this time.
She died in that car.
She stopped breathing in my arms as I carried her into the hospital.
And she still hasn’t come back to me.
My chest tightens so sharply it almost feels like something physical, like something is being pulled apart inside me.
I take a step toward her.
Then another.
Each one slower than it should be, like I’m approaching something fragile, something that might disappear if I move too quickly.
Like I don’t deserve to touch her after failing to protect her.
When I reach the bed, my hand lifts without thought, hovering for a fraction of a second before I touch her, my fingers brushing against her arm, and the warmth of her skin hits me in a way that almost hurts.
“Angel…”
The word doesn’t come out clean.
It fractures.
Breaks against everything sitting in my chest.
I swallow hard, trying again, trying to hold onto something steady, something controlled.
“Angel, I’m here.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t come back.
And something inside me gives.
I climb onto the bed carefully, every movement deliberate, mindful of the wires, the lines, the machines, and I pull her into me, my arms wrapping around her body like I need to hold her there, like if I don’t, she’ll slip again.
She fits against me too easily.
Too still.
Too quiet.
