What good is focus when every thought leads back to the same end? Each breath counts down another fraction of time I’ll never get back. And what good is breathing when tomorrow he’ll be gone? If the loop resets and I live this all again, I’ll be without him again. I’ll wake up alone and screaming in a hospital bed, and I’ll remember his touch and his voice and the taste of his lips, and I’ll be without him, again. And again and again and again, if I can never save him.
