ALIANA

The hospital room is too white, it is filled with the aroma of too much antiseptic and death.

Michael is sitting next to me, one hand on my knee, and his other fist clenched tightly—unaware that his fist is clenched. He hasn’t let me out of his sight since we got here. Not once.

I look at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to stick to me all the time,” I whisper.

He looks at me as if I've suggested he stop breathing.

“I do,” he says.

I swallow.

My body is present.

However, images of Dominic play back in my mind like a broken movie reel.

The handkerchief

The...