Samuel
I hear the knock before I’m ready for it. I knew it was coming, but I’ve been pretending, avoiding. Opening cabinets, closing them again, checking the same things twice without needing to, like if I keep my hands busy long enough, I won’t have to think about what today is.
From where I stand, I can see into the living room.
The television’s on, some daytime talk show playing in the background.
Raven’s on the couch, curled slightly into the cushions, a blanket pulled over her legs, her head tipped toward the armrest in a way that tells me she didn’t mean to fall asleep.
The coffee table in front of her still holds the plate I made earlier. Her lunch is untouched. A glass of water sits beside it, the condensation forming a ring against the grain of wood.
I can’t take my eyes off her. There’s something about the stillness, the quiet way her chest rises and falls, the way the world keeps moving around her while she’s slipped out of it for a while, that makes something in my chest pull tight.
The knock comes again.
This time, I don’t wait. I cross the room and pull the door open.
Two people stand on the other side.
A woman, mid-thirties maybe, dark hair pulled back, her expression calm in a way that feels practiced, and a man beside her holding a bag.
The woman offers a small, professional smile.
“Hi, you must be Samuel,” she says. “I’m Laura. I’ll be helping coordinate Raven’s care.”
Helping.
Her words land wrong, but I nod anyway.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping back. “Come in.”
They move through the house like they’ve done this before. Like they already know where to go. I follow a step behind, my attention splitting between them and the living room.
Raven stirs awake when they enter.
There’s no surprise in her expression.
“Hey,” I say, because it’s the only thing that comes out right.
“Hey.” She offers me a tired smile.
Laura steps forward, her voice softening just slightly as she introduces herself again, this time to Raven, explaining things in that same steady tone that’s meant to make this feel manageable, like it’s a normal process.
I sit beside Raven.
Listening. Or at least trying to. My attention catching on certain words and losing the rest.
Care plan.
Pain management.
Visits.
What to expect.
I focus on that.
What to expect.
“What does that look like, exactly?” I ask, cutting in without meaning to, my voice sharper than I intend. “When you say changes, what kind of changes do you mean?”
Laura doesn’t flinch. She answers me the same way she’s answered everything else. Calm. Clear. Like none of this is new to her.
“There may be more difficulty with appetite,” she says. “Fatigue will increase. She’ll spend more time resting. We’ll adjust medications as needed to keep her comfortable.”
Comfortable.
I nod, even though the word doesn’t sit right.
I ask another question.
Then another.
I hear myself doing it, but I can’t stop myself. I’m circling the same points from different angles. Making her explain things I already understand so that I can hold onto something that feels like direction.
Because if there’s direction, if there’s a process, then there’s something I can do.
Raven doesn’t interrupt.
She just watches.
I can feel it even when I don’t look at her, the way she’s taking me in the same way she always does, as though she can see straight through whatever I’m trying to hold together.
At some point, the man with the bag moves past us, asking quietly about the bedroom. About where certain things might go. I follow him without thinking, stepping into the hallway, into the room we sleep in, and watching as he looks around like he’s already mapping it out.
“This area here should work,” he says, gesturing toward the space near the window.
I don’t respond. Instead, I stand there, picturing it without meaning to. The change from what the room is now to what it’s going to be. Something in my chest tightens enough that I have to turn away before it becomes something I can’t push back down.
When I step back into the living room, Laura’s finishing up, going over final details with Raven. Her tone is unchanged, steady from beginning to end.
“We’ll check in again tomorrow,” she says. “If anything changes before then, you call.”
“I will.”
They gather their things and head for the door. I follow to see them out.
Laura pauses in the doorway, her expression softening. “Remember,” she says gently, “you’re not in this alone.”
There’s a beat, and then, like she feels the need to give me something more solid to hold onto, something that sounds like certainty, she says, “You’re doing everything right.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though the words don’t land the way they’re supposed to. “Okay.”
The door closes.
And just like that, it’s quiet again. Not the same quiet as before. Something’s been set in motion that isn’t going to stop now that it’s started.
My hand is still resting against the door, my palm flat against the wood.
You’re not in this alone.
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.
They’ll come and go. They’ll check boxes, adjust medications, say the right things in the right tone, and then they’ll leave again.
And when they do, it’ll still be me.
It’s always going to be me.
My hand curls slightly before I let it fall.
I don’t move, like if I wait long enough, our reality will go back to the place it’s supposed to be. The place where we’re happy. Where there’s still time stretched in front of us instead of something closing in around us.
But it doesn’t.
When I turn back, Raven’s on the couch, exactly where I left her.
Like nothing changed.
Like everything did.
She’s watching me as if she’s been waiting for me to turn around.
“That was a lot,” I say finally.
Her mouth curves, just slightly. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It was.”
I let out a breath that doesn’t feel like it goes anywhere. Crossing the room, I lower myself onto the edge of the couch beside her. The cushion dips under my weight.
She shifts just enough to make room, her shoulder brushing mine, warm and familiar.
I reach for her hand without looking, my fingers finding hers like they always do. She turns her hand into mine, threading our fingers together. Her thumb moves against the back of my hand.
It’s the same way she’s always touched me. Easy. Like it’s nothing and everything.
“They seem…” I pause, searching for something that fits, and come up with the only word I can. “Good.”
“They do,” she says.
No hesitation. No doubt.
I nod, even though nothing about this feels certain.
My grip tightens around hers, just enough to feel her there, to keep something solid between us.
She shifts closer. Until her side presses against mine, her head resting lightly against my shoulder.
My breath falters.
I turn slightly toward her, my arm coming around her without thinking, pulling her in, settling her against me in the place that belongs to her.
Her hand stays in mine. Her other settles on my chest.
“Sam,” she says quietly.
I tighten my hold on her just a fraction, my chin dipping toward her hair.
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
Her voice is softer when she speaks again.
“This,” she says, and I feel the way her fingers press slightly against me, like she’s grounding herself in it. “This is what I’m going to miss the most.”
Something in my chest pulls so tight it almost feels like it tears.
My arm tightens around her before I can stop it, pulling her closer, like I can keep her here if I just don’t let go.
She looks up at me. Her eyes find mine just as a tear slides down her cheek, slow and unsteady. She doesn’t stop it, doesn’t even blink it back.
Just lets it fall.
“Hold me tighter,” she whispers. “So I don’t forget.”
“I’ve got you,” I say, my voice rough against her, barely holding together.
“I know,” she says softly.
I pull her closer, as close as I can get her. If I can just keep her here, pressed into me like this, nothing else will reach us.
My face stays buried in her hair, my hand spreads wide against her back, holding her there, feeling every breath she takes like it matters more than anything else in the world.
I don’t notice it at first.
Just the burn behind my eyes. The break in my breath.
And then I stop fighting it.
I let it happen.
I let the tears fall, silent and steady, slipping into her hair, into the space between us where everything else already feels like it’s coming undone.
I don’t make a sound.
I don’t let go.
I just hold her.
And let it happen where she can’t see it.