The hospice room on the fifth floor of a quiet facility in Washington Heights was a pale, antiseptic cage with a single window overlooking the Hudson River, its waters a dull silver under the overcast sky of March 8, 2025.
The room smelled of bleach and wilted flowers, a faint sweetness from a vase of daisies someone had left—maybe a nurse, maybe a volunteer—on the narrow sill.
Britney sat on a cot beside Alton's bed, her leather jacket draped over the back, her dark hair loose and tangled, falling into her green eyes, which were red-rimmed and hollow from days without sleep.
Her boots were scuffed, caked with dried snow from the trek uptown, and her sketchbook lay open on her lap, its pages filled with him—Alton, always Alton, now frail and fading beneath a thin blanket, tubes snaking from his arm to a drip bag swaying on a pole.
It had been a week since the recording studio, since that night on the High Line when they'd whispered I love you under the city's glow, clinging to the USB drive like a talisman.
A week since his collapse in the apartment—another bleed, worse than before, his lungs drowning in their own ruin.
The hospital had sent him here, to this place of soft voices and softer lies, where "comfort" was the only promise left.
Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis had won, faster than the doctors had guessed, its scars tightening around his breath until every inhale was a battle.
They'd said days, maybe hours, and Britney had moved in, refusing to leave, her cot a permanent fixture, her presence a defiance against the end.
The room was small, barely ten by twelve, with beige walls and a linoleum floor that gleamed under the fluorescent light.
A monitor beeped beside the bed, a slow, steady rhythm tracking Alton's pulse—too slow, too weak, a countdown she couldn't stop.
He lay propped on pillows, his chest bare under the gown, his skin pale and clammy, the hollows under his eyes deep as bruises.
The oxygen mask fogged with each shallow breath, his stormy blue eyes half-open, drifting between her and the ceiling.
He was eighteen, but he looked ancient, his body a traitor to the fire still flickering in his gaze.
Britney's hands trembled as she sketched—his profile, sharp even now, the scar above his eyebrow, the way his lips parted around the mask.
Her pencil scratched fast, smudging charcoal across the page, a frantic bid to hold him here.
She hadn't slept more than an hour at a time, hadn't eaten since yesterday's vending-machine granola bar, her stomach a knot of grief and guilt.
She'd brought the USB drive, tucked in her pocket, and played his song—their song—on a cheap speaker she'd borrowed from a nurse, its tinny notes filling the room earlier that day: "We're shadows on the wire, sparks in the flame…"
He'd smiled then, faint but real, his hand squeezing hers, and she'd clung to it, a lifeline slipping through her fingers.
Now it was quiet, the speaker off, the only sounds the monitor's beep, the hiss of oxygen, and the distant hum of the city beyond the window—traffic on the George Washington Bridge, a tugboat horn on the river.
She'd been here four days, her world shrinking to this room, to him, every moment a theft from the shadow closing in.
Nurses came and went, their footsteps soft, their voices softer, checking vitals, adjusting drips, offering her water she didn't take. She didn't trust their pity, didn't want their comfort—just Alton, alive, breathing, hers.
He stirred, a faint groan escaping the mask, and her pencil stilled, her eyes snapping to his. "Hey," she whispered, leaning closer, her hand finding his, cold and bony under hers. "You with me?"
He blinked, slow, his gaze focusing on her, and nodded, a tiny jerk of his chin. He pulled the mask down with a trembling hand, his voice a rasp barely above the oxygen's hiss. "Yeah," he said, his grin flickering. "Still here."
She forced a smile, her throat tight, tears burning behind her eyes. "Good. Don't you dare check out on me."
"Never," he said, but the word broke, a cough rattling through him, dry and weak. He winced, his hand tightening on hers, and she squeezed back, her heart hammering. "Draw me," he said, sudden, his eyes locking on hers. "Like this. Now."
She hesitated, the request cutting deep. "Alton—"
"Please," he said, softer, urgent. "I wanna see it."
She nodded, swallowing the sob clawing up her throat, and flipped to a new page. Her pencil moved, tracing him as he was—sick, fragile, the mask dangling, the tubes curling like vines, his chest rising too shallow under the gown.
Her lines were raw, jagged, the charcoal bleeding into shadows, and she hated it—hated how real it was, how it captured the truth she couldn't face.
He watched, his breath hitching, and when she finished, she held it up, her hands shaking.
"That's me," he whispered, a faint laugh in his voice, and she saw the tears in his eyes, mirroring hers. "Fucked up, huh?"
"Beautiful," she corrected, fierce, tearing the page out and slipping it under his pillow. "You're beautiful."
He grinned, weaker now, and reached for her, his fingers brushing her cheek. "You too," he said, his voice fading. "Always."
She climbed onto the bed, careful of the tubes, curling against him, her head on his chest, the monitor's beep syncing with his heartbeat—slow, faltering, but there.
His arm draped over her, heavy but warm, and they lay like that, tangled, the room a cocoon against the world.
She whispered memories—subway platforms, dive bars, Harlem rooftops—her voice a thread weaving them back to life.
He laughed, soft and broken, adding his own—the bodega coffee, their first kiss, the song they'd made—and they built a fragile bridge over the abyss, holding on.
Hours passed, the sky darkening outside, the river a black mirror reflecting the city's glow.
Nurses checked in, their faces blurring—kind, tired, resigned—and Britney stayed, her hand in his, her sketchbook open on the cot, pages spilling onto the floor.
She drew the window, the daisies, the IV pole, anything to keep her hands busy, her mind from unraveling.
He slept fitfully, his breath a shallow wheeze, and she watched him, memorizing every line, every flicker, terrified each one was the last.
Night fell, the room dimming, the monitor's green glow casting shadows on the walls. He woke again, his eyes clearer, and tugged her closer, his voice a whisper through the mask.
"Play it," he said, nodding at the USB drive in her pocket. "One more time."
She nodded, her chest aching, and pulled out the speaker, plugging in the drive. The song started—"We're shadows on the wire, sparks in the flame…"—his voice filling the room, rough and alive, a ghost of the boy he'd been.
She curled against him, tears streaming, and he hummed along, faint, his hand stroking her hair. The lyrics wrapped around them, a vow unbroken, and she felt him fading, his grip loosening, his breath slowing.
"Love you," he murmured, the words slurring, his eyes drifting shut.
"Love you too," she choked out, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips through the mask, desperate to hold him here.
The song ended, silence crashing in, and she waited, her ear to his chest, counting the beats—one, two, three—then nothing.
The monitor flatlined, a piercing wail cutting the air, and she screamed his name, raw and guttural, shaking him, begging him to come back.
Nurses rushed in, hands gentle but firm, pulling her off as they checked him—pulse, breath, nothing.
"Time of death, 5:47 a.m.," one said, soft, final, and Britney collapsed onto the cot, sobbing, her sketchbook tumbling, pages scattering like leaves.
They covered him, a sheet over his face, and she lunged, shoving them away, needing to see him—his eyes closed, his grin gone, still hers but not.
She stayed there, hours blurring, nurses retreating, the room emptying. Dawn broke, pale light spilling over the Hudson, and she sat by his bed, his hand in hers, cold now, the sketch unfinished on her lap—him, sleeping, forever.
The USB drive lay on the floor, its song silent, and she picked it up, clutching it, a shard of him she'd never let go.
They took him away eventually, her screams echoing down the hall, and she was alone, the room hollow, the river indifferent outside.
She gathered her sketches, his song, her jacket, and left, the cot abandoned, the daisies wilting.
The unraveling was complete—Alton gone, their sanctuary ashes, her heart a wound that wouldn't heal.
But she carried him—on paper, in sound, in the vow they'd burned into the dark.