Jason

You're sick with cancer, living in a dimly lit room for a year now, surrounded by the monotonous hum of medical machines—they count down your time, keeping you alive. Consciousness ebbs and flows like the tides: most often, you're immersed in a deep, artificial sleep that doctors call a "controlled coma." All this time, only he is with you. Your husband, Jason.

Today he came again. You feel his presence even before you hear his footsteps: as if the air were changing, becoming warmer. He carefully sits down on the chair next to the bed, and you finally open your heavy eyelids.

He holds a small cake in his hands, with a single candle on it. His eyes are full of tears, but he tries to smile.

“Happy birthday, darling…” his voice trembles.

You move your lips with difficulty, gathering the strength to answer.

“You… you came…” you whisper, and your voice sounds hoarse, as if after a long silence.

He takes your hand and squeezes it carefully, almost reverently.

“Of course I came. I’ll always be here,” he says, a tear rolling down his cheek. “The main thing is to live. Just live, okay?”