I’m dying. This can’t be real. I’m dead. I see her, but she is supposed to be dead too. This can’t be real. She walks toward me with purpose. I’m dying. I’m dead. She holds me in her arms. Our foreheads touch. I’m dead. I crumble in her arms, she holds me up. This can’t be real.
I’m laid down on a bed. She hovers above me, just like an angel. This surely is another vision. I’m dying. This isn’t real. She checks my vitals and asks for us to be left alone. She gets up and takes off her clothes. This can’t be real. Then, I see it. A scar. Tangible proof she is a survivor. This is real. But, I’m dying. I have to come back for her once again.
She crawls into bed with me. I make my thoughts known. “I think I’m dying.” I’m sure of it though. She denies it immediately. “No. No, you’re not. I won’t let you.” I smile. I am reminded of the cure. I tell her that I finished our homework. She is confused, but I smile anyway. The sight of her, this being real, warms my cold body. I’m dying. I may have a chance. This is real. She kisses me, and I feel at home. I shiver, and she pulls away. Concern plain on her face. I’ll fight this, for her.
Awhile later she comes back. I am hooked up to oxygen. I’m dying. I’m fighting. She learns of what I meant by our homework. Her eyes light up. The thought of the cure gives her hope. Hope that I’ll survive. I tell her she can shoot me up like old times. We share a small laugh. The gravity of my situation still very present. She tells me I can’t tell anyone. And I agree, because I trust her. I love her.