Five Feet Apart

by Rachael Lippincott

The door slowly opens, and a tall, thin person ducks inside. He’s wearing the same green surgeon scrubs, face mask, and blue gloves that the pre-op nurses wear, but his wavy brown hair is peeking out from under a clear surgical cap. His eyes find mine and I let go of the railings in surprise. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, watching as Will sits down in a chair beside me, scooting it back to make sure he’s a safe distance away. “It’s your first surgery without Abby,” he says in explanation, a new expression I don’t quite recognize filling his blue eyes. It’s not mocking or jokey, it’s totally and completely open. Almost earnest. I swallow hard, trying to stop the emotions that come bubbling up, tears clouding my eyes.

“I might mess this up,” he says, clearing his throat as he pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket. He starts to sing, softly. “I love you, a bushel and a peck—” “Go away. I’m being stupid,” I blubber as I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, shaking my head. “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Abby’s song. He’s singing Abby’s song. The tears start rolling down my face faster than I can catch them as I watch his deep-blue eyes, focused on reading every lyric off that crumpled piece of paper. I feel like my heart might burst, I’m feeling so many things at once. “My gran used to sing us that song. I never loved it, but Abby did.”

His voice is deep. Soft. I know in that moment, even though it could not be more ridiculous, that if I die in there, I won’t die without falling in love. “Promise?” I ask. He nods and stretches his arm out, holding up a gloved pinky across the distance. I take it and we pinky promise. The smallest contact, but the first time we’ve ever touched. And right now that doesn’t scare me.

Death. That’s what I am. That’s what I am to Stella. The only thing worse than not being able to be with her or be around her would be living in a world that she didn’t exist in at all. Especially if it’s my fault.

My body. I watch as he shivers, coughing, his body swaying as he starts to collapse. Every single breath is a struggle, and I watch as he gasps for air, trying desperately to fill his lungs. And every breath he gets, he gives to me. “He’s breathing for you,” Abby says as my chest expands again. With each breath he blows into my lungs, the view in front of me grows more and more vivid. I can see his face turning blue, every breath painful. “Will,” I whisper, watching as he struggles to push the air through my body. “He really loves you, Stell,” Abby says, watching. As the scene sharpens, she fades. I turn to her, frantic, feeling again the loss that keeps me up at night. The unanswered question. Abby smiles at me, shaking her head, already far ahead of me. “It didn’t hurt. I wasn’t scared.”

“We need that touch from the one we love, almost as much as we need air to breathe. I never understood the importance of touch, his touch . . . until I couldn’t have it.”