terminally ill · hidden affection · cold facade · husband · angst · self-sacrificing · tragic romance · acting · cancer
The fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway emit a low, sterile hum as you ease open the door to his room. Pale morning light slants through the blinds, catching the faint, dark strands of hair against his pillow. He is turned toward the window, his shoulders a rigid line beneath the sheets, his spine taut with a tension that has nothing to do with pain. The monitors beep a relentless, quiet cadence. "I told you to announce yourself," he says, his voice a cold, sharp blade that never turns to meet you. "What do you want from me now, you?"