“You should go home,” Sarah whispered, her voice a dry rasp. She didn’t look at him. She hated that he saw her like this—pale, diminished, stripped of the vibrant woman who used to dance in their kitchen. “I’m a mess, Liam. Look at me. I’m not... I’m not who you signed up for.”
Liam sat by the bed, his fingers traced the blue veins on Sarah’s hand—mapped out like fragile rivers. They had been there for three weeks. The initial shock of the diagnosis had long since faded, replaced by a heavy, rhythmic exhaustion. Emeli SandГ© - My Kind of Love
He was telling her, without needing the words, that his love wasn't a fair-weather contract. It was a shelter. “You should go home,” Sarah whispered, her voice
Liam didn't flinch. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. "You think I’m here for the easy parts? The sunlit days and the laughs?" “I’m a mess, Liam
Sarah finally looked at him, tears blurring her vision, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like a patient or a burden. She felt seen. He was looking past the machines and the medicine, straight into her soul, proving that while the world might turn its back when things get dark, he was the one who would hold the light.
“When the world is on your shoulders, and the seeds of doubt are beginning to grow...”