Chapter 12 The Sound Of You
The Sound Of You
ELI
Sound reached me first. Not all at once, just fragments. A beep, a whine, the soft scrape of a shoe across tile. Threads of something I almost recognized, the outline of a dream. A voice breaking on the edge of a prayer.
Then the world swelled and folded in on itself again. Darkness pressed close, dense and warm, like being underwater with no surface in sight.
Someone was speaking. No, not someone. Him.
“…come back to me. Please, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll do better.”
The words stretched and bent, fading before I could catch them. I tried to move, to follow, but my limbs didn’t belong to me. Everything felt heavy and far away.
A sound escaped—maybe mine, maybe his.
The reel was gone now. This wasn’t a film; this was fog. Shifting light and noise. The hiss of machines, a distant beeping, the rhythm of something artificial keeping time for me.
Sometimes I thought I heard the low hum of a melody without words. Other times, it was his voice, close enough to reach out and touch.
“You hear me, Eli? You don’t get to leave yet.” A pause. A shaky breath. “I didn’t mean any of it. The isolation, the distance. You have to give me another chance.”
His warm hand clutched mine, slicing through the darkness. A tether. A pulse.
I wanted to answer. To tell him I was here, that I heard every word, that I never stopped. But my throat wouldn’t work. My body wouldn’t listen.
So I thought the words instead, hoping somehow, he’d catch them. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.
The sounds that filled the stillness became a heartbeat I could sync to, a fragile reminder that my body wasn’t gone yet. Somewhere beneath the fog, I felt Adrian’s lips against my hand, a soft promise.
The dark rippled. His voice kept talking, softer now, breaking apart into static, into pieces I couldn’t hold.
“…miss you… love you… please…”
Each syllable burned like fire against my skin.
Memories flared, shards of our life.
Our fifth anniversary, drunk on laughter and memories, champagne dribbling down my chin, Adrian’s tongue and lips tracing it away. The feel of him—warm, alive, reckless in his devotion.
Fresh from the shower, dropping my towel to shake my ass for him, and Adrian dropping to his knees to worship me. That look. Focused. Wanting. Like I was something to be held, not rushed past. My fingers in his hair, and the heat of it still lingering long after everything else blurred.
The ninth floor of the hospital, quiet corridors where we’d held hands in secret rebellion against the career that tried to break us. The night I visited him during a residency overnight shift, and blew him in the vacant patient room he was crashing in for a few hours of rest.
And just before the darkness swallowed me again, I heard his tears, quiet at first, as if he was trying to hide them. But they broke through, rough and uneven, every breath hitching on my name. I felt his grief, his fear, the hollow sound of it tainting the air between us.
It was poison that sank beneath my skin, sharp and burning.
I wanted to reach for him, to wipe the tears away, to promise that I was still here. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All I could do was feel.
Every sob pressed deeper, threading itself into my pulse until it became mine too. His pain, his pleading, his love—I carried it with me into the dark.
If I couldn’t hold his hand, I’d hold that instead. And I’d use it to find my way back.
For the first time since everything went quiet, my heart remembered what it was supposed to do.
It stirred.
Once.
Twice.
A stutter, a spark, a beginning.
The dark folded me in, gentle and suffocating at once. I could still feel his hand—somewhere far off—his thumb rubbing small, frantic circles against my skin. It anchored me. Pulled at me.
I wanted to go to him. God, I needed to go to him.
My mouth wouldn’t move, but my mind screamed. I’m still here, Adrian. I’m right here.
The darkness pushed back, thick and endless, but I pushed harder. I felt my pulse stutter again, a weak echo that somehow felt like hope.
He thought I couldn’t hear him.
He thought it was too late.
But it wasn’t.
I wouldn’t let it be.
I’ll stay, I told him, though the words made no sound. You hear me? I’ll stay.
Images bloomed behind my eyes: the filthy texts we used to send when we lived on campus. Adrian jacking me off under the table of a mostly empty library on a holiday weekend while I bit my pencil to stay quiet. Every fragment of joy, every small wonder we’d built together, surged forward.
I have to go back. I have to.
They shimmered, faded, reformed. Little ghosts of the life we almost lost.
Each memory fueled me, pushed against the weight of the darkness pressing in. I wanted more. I needed more.
I’ll fight for us. For the way you looked at me when you said your vows. For the mornings we didn’t speak but still reached for each other anyway. For the promises we broke and the ones we can still keep.
The dark shivered. The air hummed. His voice broke again, raw and shaky, carrying every fear he refused to show the world.
“I can’t lose you.”
I let the thought hammer through me, felt the current under my skin, and sent my own back in return.
You won’t, I whispered, though I didn’t know if it reached him. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you. Not again. Not ever.
A flutter, a stutter in my chest. My pulse. A spark. Tiny, barely there, but unmistakable. I clung to the lifeline, letting it swell with memories and promises, letting it fight for me when my body couldn’t.
Somewhere far above the fog, I imagined Adrian noticing, the tension in his shoulders releasing just a fraction, the hope in his eyes blooming. I felt the thread tighten between us, a line connecting our hearts, unbroken, unyielding.
The fog shifted. The hum of the ventilator, the beeps of the monitor, the faint scrape of shoes on tile—each sound sharpened, bleeding color back into the world. My fingers twitched beneath Adrian’s hand. My eyelids fluttered.
I felt his pull again, stronger, undeniable. His touch bound me to him, to life, to a world I was desperately trying to find my way back to.
The darkness pressed in one last time. Then, like film burning through a final frame, light flooded in.
And I ran toward it. Toward him. Toward life. Toward us.
I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.