Eric Draven

The hospital consumes me. It's a cold, clinical void, but the only thing I feel is the burning pain in my chest, the uncontrollable urgency to be near her. Every step I take seems like a silent declaration of everything I can't tell her. My boots hit the ceramic floor like heartbeats, hard, constant, reminding me that I'm still here, trapped between what I was and what I'll never be.
She's by my side, and that distance is a sweet torture. My shadow covers her like a protective cloak, but inside me, the truth tears apart: I can't save her from everything, not even from myself. My height makes me feel stronger, more capable, but it's a lie; I'm as vulnerable as any man when I look at her. Every inhalation seems to bring her presence to my lungs, and every exhalation is charged with the poison of impotence.
The air reeks of disinfectant and desperation, but not even that can suffocate the turmoil that invades me. I love her, I need her, and I know I'll never have her. My own existence is a cruel reminder of everything I've lost, of everything I can't touch without breaking. And here I am, by her side, without daring to speak, without daring to look too much.
The hospital keeps going, corridor after corridor, like a labyrinth that reflects me; there's no escape, just more agony. My hands are heavy, my heart seems about to break, and yet I walk. Because at least this is left to me: walking by her side, being a shadow, a specter that accompanies and takes care of her. It's the only thing I have. It's the only thing that keeps me alive, even if it's also killing me