The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed over my head, pulling me under. I did not resurface.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

I don’t think I can live through seeing you try harder. I’ve never seen anyone trying so hard. It hurts to watch.