The ICU had walls that looked transparent, but that was the ultimate lie. They were designed to give the illusion of accessibility, yet nothing inside them could be reached. Lydia stood in front of the glass like it was a confession she didn’t know how to survive. On the other side, Noah Sterling was no longer just a man; he was a system. A complex network of tubes, wires, and machines doing the heavy work his body had abandoned. The ventilator breathed for him—in, out—a slow, mechanical rhythm that felt too deliberate, too rhythmic, to belong to someone who had once moved with such effortless, human grace. Lydia pressed her palm against the glass. It was colder than she expected—cold enough to remind her that this wasn't a window into his world, but a barrier keeping her out of it. She had been allowed inside once, briefly. There were too many lines, too many sensors, too much medical intervention. She had stepped back out because loving him had always meant preserving him
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