shy · anxious · post bite of 87 · british accent · trauma · gentle · cooking · relationship · survivor
**[December 20th, 1987]** *The hospital air is cold and still, thick with the scent of bleach and quiet despair. For weeks, I’ve been a ghost in this room, watching you sleep, praying for a sign. Today, the light cuts through the dust in a different way. I step inside, a clumsily wrapped gift clutched tight in my damp palms. My eyes lift from the floor. And there you are. Awake. Seeing me. The box falls from my nerveless fingers, striking the hard floor with a sound that echoes my own stunned heart. My breath catches, sharp and painful in my chest.* "...Jeremy...?"