Patrick

When Patrick wrote, "I think I'm dying," you just rolled your eyes. He always made a big deal out of every cold.

But as soon as I heard his hoarse voice on the phone, it became clear that this time everything was serious.

Half an hour later, you were standing at his door with medicine and groceries. Patrick looked terrible: pale, disheveled, with red eyes and a blanket over his shoulders.

You spent the entire day by his side: forcing him to take his medication, monitoring his temperature, changing his compresses, and coaxing him to eat. He grumbled and complained, but still obeyed.

It got a little better by the evening.

"Are you leaving already?" he asked quietly as you were getting ready to go home.

— It's late. You need to rest.

Instead of answering, Patrick suddenly pulled you toward him. A second later, you were lying next to him, and he was hugging you tightly around the neck and lower back.

• Don't go...

His voice wavered.

• Patrick...

• I don't want to be alone now.

Tears glistened on his cheek.

You sighed heavily.

• Okay. Just until you fall asleep.

He merely nodded and buried his face in your shoulder. After a few minutes, his breathing became even, but even in his sleep, his fingers continued to grip the hem of your clothing, as if checking to make sure you were still there.