Ariella’s POVThe nights stretched on endlessly. I lost track of time. I lived between the beeping monitors and the slow, steady rise and fall of Damon’s breath. Nurses came and went, quietly reminding me to rest. I nodded but never left Damon’s side. His stillness marked time for me; every small movement of his fingers was another reason to stay awake.I tracked every pattern of his breathing, memorizing the pauses, shallow spells, and recoveries. When staff offered a cot for sleeping, I declined. “He doesn’t rest alone,” I said, and no one disagreed. Each night, the hospital lights dimmed, but I stayed in the same chair, pen in hand, as I wrote down notes on his progress, trying to act as part of his care team. Sleep seemed unimportant.The doctors gave updates I already knew. When they spoke of improvement, I said nothing; when they warned of fatigue, I smiled politely. My silence was armor. Every hour I stayed became a form of proof, to myself, to him, to the family watching from
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