I lay on the sofa in my living room staring blankly at the ceiling. I've been here all day, studying the cracks and bumps until I know them better than I know myself. But I think that even after hours and hours of self-reflection, that's still not such a massive achievement.

I've not moved position once. My limbs are dead-weights, suctioned to the sofa cushions beneath me like it's all that's keeping me alive. They feel swollen, aching, and my mind even more so. I am numb all over. I'm sure that time stopped a long time ago, and yet forever is living itself out in my mind. Forever being my time with Bailey, and a lot shorter than I ever thought it would be.

"Take the picture!"

I grin, watching her face on the camera screen.

"Take it!" she exclaims, locked in a position I can't quite remember, only her eyes darting about, imploring me to hurry up and take the photo. I giggle like a little kid, seeing her become frustrated.

Much as I always tried to take her seriously, I never could when she was angry. Just the thought of her trying to frown nearly makes me smile. She could never quite pull it off; she'd betray herself with the flick of an eyelid, the twitch upward of her lip. There are only a few times I can remember her succeeding, when she was utterly distressed. Times I'd rather not remember, if I'm honest with myself.

No matter how hard I try, I still can't remember how she was posing for the camera. It frustrates me no end, driving worry through my veins. If I can't remember one thing, will that spread? Will I forget other stuff too? I promised myself I would never do that. I promised her. And her I am letting it happen, letting slip the one thing I can still do for her.

I remember her pale, fragile hand, swamped by mine. I could feel her bones jutting out, and how thin her skin had grown, like tarpaulin stretched too-tightly over canvas. It showed just how delicate she had become. One flick from a feather could have knocked her down. Her skin was so colourless, she was like a ghost, and I guess that she was. In just six months she became a shadow of her former self.

"Alex?" Her voice is faint, and I sit up straighter, leaning closer so that my ear is practically against her lips.

It had been so long since she'd spoken. I'd just been sitting there next to her bed, holding her hand even when she wasn't responsive. It was early in the morning, and I was so, so down. When she spoke, I thought my heart might leap out of my chest. The last time she'd spoken was four days beforehand, and all she'd done was ask for water. I missed the sound of her voice.

Miss. I still miss it. I miss her, and what we had.

"Alex?"

I press closer, relishing the sound of her saying my name, knowing that it may well be the last time I ever hear it from her.

"I'm here, baby. I'm here." I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb, but she seems tense still. "Are you in pain? Do you want me to call the nurse?"

She shakes her head as best she can, tightening her grip on my hand ever so slightly, so that I can feel the pressure. She says something, but it's too faint for me to hear.

"Say it again, Bails. What is it?" I lean farther down, so that I can feel her lips against my skin.

"Promise me," she whispers.

Her voice is scratchy and weak, and so quiet I can only just hear. If my heart wasn't already broken, that would have done it. I wait for her to go on, knowing she'd hate for me to have to prompt her.

"That you— you'll remem..." she trails off, and I keep rubbing her knuckles with my thumb, feeling her hand slacken in mine.

"Remember what, baby?" I hold back a breath, not wanting to obstruct her words. I need to hear.

She doesn't respond at first, and for a moment I think she's fallen asleep again. But I still don't breathe, holding onto the hope that she'll respond. My chest is tight.

"Us."

I finally take a breath, and it shakes on the way in. How would I ever forget us?

"Promise me."

"Don't talk like that. I won't need to remember. You're right here."

Her lips curve upwards slightly, but not for long. "We both know that's not true. I need—" She pauses for a juddering breath, chest rattling, and I realise just how much effort it is for her to do such a simple thing as speak.

"You should go back to sleep. This is too tiring for you."

"No!" She says it with such force that I immediately stop, leaning back down. I need to let her have this.

"I need you to do this, Al." Her sunken, hooded eyes plead with me from behind deep bags.

Still, I hesitate. I know that I'll remember her— us— no matter what. But I don't want to make her this promise, because it just makes the end seem all the closer. It's been looming on the horizon for so long now, but I've kept up a refusal to accept it. Maybe it's time to let go. If anything did happen and I hadn't given her what she wanted, it would be so much worse than making a promise and her getting better. Because she will. She has to.

"Alex..." Her voice is getting fainter, and the guilt of keeping her waiting like this hits me like a bulldozer straight to the chest.

I can't give her another burden just because I don't want to give myself one. I would carry the world for her. So what's the problem with this?

I don't want to say goodbye.

"Please," she whispers. So weak, so desperate.

I lean down, turning my head so my lips rest against her hollow cheek. "I promise, baby. I'll never forget us. You should always know that."

She breathes heavily out again, seeming to let out some of her tension. Her breath hits my cheek, warm and soft on my rough skin. It is comforting, whispering of the life still left in her yet.

"I love you. Forever and ever."

I press my lips delicately to her own for a moment, relishing the feeling of her's against mine, before pulling away. I watch her face, studying her in this peaceful moment that I might etch it into my memories. The beautiful lines and traces, the shape. Even with tubes everywhere, and a thin, pale face, bones visible under every bit of translucent skin, she's still beautiful to me. She's still Bailey.

She's also already asleep again.

I sit back down, her hand still in mine, and carefully trace her fingers. I know her hands better than my own. Where people use the phrase 'I know it better than the back of my hand,', I'd use 'I know it better than I know Bailey's hands.' Or, more often, I know it nearly as well. Because those lines and delicate structures are stuck in my brain like a beautiful melody; a permanent imprint.

I must have zoned out, because suddenly I realise there's a frantic beeping next to me, and it's lighter in the stark hospital than before. The dawn has crept up on us, whispering of things to come I do not understand.

I look to Bailey, seeing a light flashing and realising where the beeping is coming from. I rush to my feet, not dropping her hand as I call for a nurse urgently, eyes wide. This can't be happening.

The nurse comes running, takes one look at the machine and starts to fumble in one of the cabinets nearby, before reappearing with an oxygen mask. She wastes no time in attaching it to the tank and securing it over Bailey's lips and nose. I keep watching, even after the nurse reassures me and goes back to her station. I'm not taking my eyes off of her again. What if she'd... I refuse to finish that train of thought.

I sit back down, moving my chair right up to the bed so that I can clutch her hand to my chest, heart still thumping wildly like a little bird desperate to escape its imprisonment.

I turn on the sofa, the memory leaving me uncomfortable and irksome. Thoughts of our sunny day in the garden still haunt my mind, and the fact I still can't remember how she posed for the camera frightens me. I thought it would have come back by now.

And then I remember I still have her camera in my bedroom.

The prospect of getting up and navigating the dark hallway to a room full of crippling memories isn't a good one. I'm already shaking at the thought of unearthing so many painfully happy times. But more frightening is the fact that I might forget more and then, eventually, hurt. I would never forgive myself.

I shift, tentatively placing my feet to the ground. I feel my legs protest after being still for so long. My left foot is cramping, and pins and needles burn my arms. Nevertheless, I ease to my feet and start walking. One aching foot in front of the other, over and over. It's slow, but it's walking.

I reach the front room door, and pull it open. The dark and cold of the windowless hall engulfs me like a storm. I squeeze my eyes shut against the noise and the force of everything as it presses in, grabbing at me with greedy, invasive hands, desperate for another victim.

Oh, lord...