The elevator refuses to budge, traveling in the same, usual slow pace despite my silent pleadings for speed. I want to bang my hands against the wall to make it go faster, repeatedly and with enough strength that it'll miraculously soar to the floor I need to be at, and should have been at—hours ago.

The three minutes to the car, and the ten minutes it took to get here feel like a waste of time.

Precious time.

And now we're passing floor twenty-three, and there's nothing I can do but waste more.

Giovanni held my hand on the entire way here, but now he stands beside me on the ascent, a good distance away. I'm glad for it. The last thing I want is him consoling me.

Norman's still alive. It hasn't happened yet.

There's still time.

There's still a chance it won't happen today.

The elevator comes to an abrupt halt and I slip through the slim exit before the doors have even parted halfway, sprinting into the hallway. The front door is unlocked. The apartment appears to be empty, but as I jump down the steps inside, I notice the nurse standing outside of Norman's bedroom.

When Deborah sees me, her face is a mixture of emotions. None of them overpower the other. She shows me just enough compassion, pity and concern to be respectful. I drop my purse on the ground and shake my head, swallowing.

How could this happen? It's too soon.

"What happened?"

"As you know, Mr. White has been fighting off a relatively mild cold for the past couple days...unfortunately, it's developed into pneumonia, Miss Bardot."

Her words take a moment to process, only because in my research on stage-four cancer, pneumonia is a killer. A quick killer. And my immediate, horrifying thought is that he won't be able to come back from this. And if he could, would he even want to?

She tells me how he progressively became worse—his coughing sharpened, a fever spiked, and he was almost completely unresponsive by the time the doctor arrived. I want to shout, ask why she didn't call sooner, but don't have it in me to yell. Giovanni rests a hand on my shoulder as she confirms my suspicions and explains how hard it would be for him to recover this progressed in his disease.

He was sitting up today. Yes, he looked sick. He's looked sick for months. But he was okay when I left. Why did I leave? God, why did I leave?

He's been alone this whole time.

I think about how sick I became just a few days ago, and dread fills my belly. Dread drowns out the woman's voice, or Giovanni's replies. What if I got him sick? What if my precautions didn't work?

"Scarlett?"

I tear my eyes off the wall at her voice. "His lungs are inflamed, and filled with fluid. He will be extremely tired and weak, when he is conscious. Due to the fever, he's experiencing chills. He's itchy, which is very common in stage four. With pneumonia, oxygen has trouble reaching blood, which is why his body cells aren't working properly, why he's progressively worsening. Bronchial pneumonia is very hard to treat at this stage, but the doctor is doing everything he can to make Norman comfortable."

"Is he in a lot of pain?" Stupid question.

She shakes her head. "The doctor's given him heavy dosages of pain medication. Mr. White is currently sleeping, but he's stable, which is a good sign."

A good sign for what? He's dying. Stabilizing him is only making this last longer, making him hurt more.

"Is...is this it?" I whisper, hearing my voice shake, and Giovanni's lips are at my hair.

She lets me know, without even speaking. When she tells me that there's a chance of recovery, but that we should prepare ourselves, I'm sure that means no. Normally, I feel like this would be the moment I cry. The moment I realize that my father is at the last stage of his life, possibly his final days. My eyes are dry. I don't know if it's because I've been preparing for this, or if it's because my body knows that letting that kind of emotion in right now would destroy me, but I can only nod.

She rubs my arm, warmly. "The doctor came so fast that he bailed on an appointment to get here. He said he'll be back in a few hours, and he'll stay with Norman throughout the night to ensure he gets the best possible care."

I nod again, goosebumps creeping up my arms, my legs, even my throat. I feel them everywhere.

"He's sleeping, but you're welcome to go in."

I'm not sure why Giovanni lets me go in alone. I turn, and he's outside with the nurse still. I can only imagine he's giving me space, space to process it all. I wrap my arms around my body as I walk up to Norman's bed, finding him attached to a drip. The sight of him from a few hours ago to now is drastic and difficult to fathom. It's hard to even look at him, this man who's been in my life for so long.

Who's become to mean something far greater than I'd expected. He's always been a mentor, a leader, a father figure. He and I were best friends once. The gaping age difference didn't matter. Before I had any clue that he was my father, before the entire mess with Giovanni, we'd travel for work. We'd go out to eat. We'd joke and speak as if we were friends, rather than co-workers—or what's more—family.

I remember when he first showed up into my life, when he saved me from whatever fate I was headed toward when my father was imprisoned, my mother killed, he would invite me to every function he held, every holiday. I always thought it was because he felt pity that I'd spend them alone.

I always said no.

Now, I realize why he spent so much time trying to make me into something, why he spent so much time caring.

He was making up for lost time. And now that time is gone.

For months, it's been escaping through a small puncture, blowing out and all around us in slow, weak gusts, but the months have passed, and that puncture has widened and the air is coming out so fast that nothing can slow it down. No care, no desperation, no prayers can stop this.

He's sick. He's in pain. I don't care what she says. Even in sleep, this looks like it hurts like hell. I have no idea what to do. I sit down on the edge of the bed, and grab his hand, resting my other over his large fingers. The nurse has applied wet rags to his head and throat, but when I check them, they've already warmed from the heat of the fever.

I peel them off of him, and work on wetting new ones, ones that will cool him down. His limbs randomly contract and move, even in sleep. I'm not sure why. I'm gentle as I lay the damp towel to his head, his neck, under his arms. I'm just looking at him, and I feel his discomfort.

While I'm throwing the used rags into the laundry, I pick up the Vaseline as I leave the bathroom. I apply it carefully to his lips, which have dried and cracked. I'm pulling back when Giovanni's hand strokes my hair, letting me know he's here. I hadn't heard him come in.

Neither of us say a word, not wishing to wake him.

...

It's nearly two hours later, when Norman's lashes flutter open, his eyes displaying a fleeting moment of incoherence, of disorientation before they land on me. I sit up in the seat I've pulled up next to the bed. Despite the hour, Giovanni's in the kitchen, making a meal that I'm sure Norman won't, and probably can't eat. But, it's making him feel useful, so I've left him to it.

The nurse is gone, and we're in that nervous stage between when one leaves and the other has still yet to arrive for the next shift. There's not much to do, but try to keep the fever down. Try to keep him comfortable.

But this is the first time he's woken since I've been home.

I scoot closer to him. "Norman."

He moves his mouth, as if he were thirsty. I quickly reach for the water on the nightstand, not sure if he'll be able to drink it, or worse, keep it down. We've prepared with chipped ice for when that happens. I smile, unable to contain my relief when he drinks a sip of the water and swallows it. Some of it escapes his lips, so I grab the rag and wipe away the wetness.

He coughs, and it's a vicious sound. And the air he sucks back in is worse.

"How long?"

I glance at the clock. "You've been out for a few hours."

It takes him a long time to speak but eventually he smiles, slowly. "Still fighting?"

I laugh, only hearing nervousness. "No, no. We're okay."

"You both are so stubborn." I nod, as his teeth chatter, and he closes his eyes, humming. "It's real cold."

I stand, and grab one of the blankets from the bottom of the bed, knowing it won't help chase the chill away, but it might give him comfort.

"I need you to grab me the binder, on top of the desk. Bring it here."

I set down the blanket over him, curiously looking over to the desk. Surely enough, there is a binder on top of a stack of papers. I retrieve it, and place it by him on the bed.

"Open it."

I realize he can't grab it. I nod, and open the flaps, blinking when I find his will inside.

"Everything is there. I made a...change to it, today."

"A change?"

He nods, slowly. "Yes. Scarlett, y-you have to make him take it."

"What?"

"Giovanni," I blink, shell-shocked as he continues, "There's a portion for him, so he can work...he chose right, doing what he did. Don't hold it against him."

"I don't know how to make him take it."

"You stay as stubborn, as you always are. I took a portion of Monica's cut to do it, so she may get upset about that, but I don't...I don't really care."

I smile. "I'll handle her."

"I know you will."

"There's...there's another thing too." He points to the folder, with a trembling finger. My eyes sweep over the will, and land upon a section that makes my head snap up to him.

"At his or her twenty-fifth birthday, after college...there's enough to get a house, a car, and some extra. If-If you have more, it allows you to split the amount to accommodate."

I shake my head, gaping. "H-How did you know?"

"Giovanni, he let it slip."

I hold up the binder. "Does he know about this?"

"No."

"Norman, I was going to tell you."

"I know...but I'm glad he did. I got to see h-how excited he is for it. I think he'll make a good father."

My heart aches, painfully. I set down the binder, and reach out hastily, clasping onto Normans hand with both of mine. I expect them to be ice cold, due to the paleness of his skin, but they're hot. Burning hot.

"Norman..."

He peers at me through tired, slanted eyes. "Everything's about to change...Don't worry. You are ready for it."

I shake my head, my breaths escaping like gasps. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to be a mother. I won't be any good."

"You sell yourself short. You always do."

I close my eyes, and drop my head onto his hand, exhaling. "I'm scared. I'm so scared."

He's coherent, but the fever isn't gone. I feel like it doesn't matter. He knows he's not coming back from this. That's why he's doing this, that's why the words are so hard to utter.

"He's good for you. He'll keep you safe. I was wrong...before. I should have never done what I did. I added to your pain, when you've gone through...so much of it already."

I lift my head, shaking it profusely. "That's over now. All of that is in the past. I'm happy. I am. I'm glad I know everything now." I inhale deeply, to hold back all the emotions that want to come out. I smile wide, wanting to prove how happy I am, even though I feel like shit. Like absolute shit. I just want to make him happy. "I'm glad you're my dad. I'm so glad."

His eyes water, even further than they have naturally become. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I gave you to them."

I hear my own tears, and the sound of resistance I make when I hold them back.

"You should have been loved, from the start. You're so perfect, Scarlett." He sucks in a difficult breath, his teeth chattering. "The most perfect thing I've ever done and I'm so proud of you."

I shake my head, and look down, a sob ripping right through my chest. It's like a blade, a sharp destructive blade. It's a lifetime of struggles, and low expectations—that feeling of not being enough. And it's the blade that desperately tries to puncture into that hard, steel-like layer of skin, to rid me of that pain. It's a gift he's trying so hard to give me.

The tears have come—along with everything he and I haven't had the courage to say before.

"I wish I had more time. I wish I could give you away, and spoil your kids. I wish a lot of things."

I squeeze his hands tighter when he shows more pain than he has before, coughing and deflating as if there were barely anything left in him. I'm inhaling and exhaling with incredible force, my adrenaline surging with fear.

"Tell me about her," I plead, softly.

He blinks, fast, staring at me. I nod, over and over again.

"Please, tell me about her. I want to know."

Speaking is something that hurts him, but when he's speaking of her it seems to hurt just a little less.

"She was a spiritual woman. She-she never liked to stay in one job for too long. She hated conformity. I don't...think she ever stayed in one for more than three months." He chuckles. "You definitely got your drive from me. Don-Donna didn't find hers until we found out...found out about you."

I stare at him, studying his face, finding traces of myself I'd forced my mind not to notice.

"She...screamed when she read the test. She cried, and laughed. I was so shocked, we'd only been together a year but...it was a great year. She wanted to name you Anna." His eyes close, like he can't keep them open and reopen. "Anna."

"She loved Bollywood, and fortune cookies. Didn't like Chinese food, but would get it for the fortunes. She wore pink, all the time and-and cried whenever she saw someone pick a flower from the ground."

"She was...gentle. And innocent. And young in her heart. I've...I've searched for so many years to find someone who would look at me...look at me like she did just once. I should have known I never would."

He sits in silence a few beats, needing to recover his breath. I hold his hand against my face, knowing soon I'll never see him again. Our time to be father and daughter, something we've both been two stubborn to acknowledge and act on, is running out. And I'm stuck here, staring at him, remembering every cruel thing I've ever said, every fight and every glare, regretting it all.

"I-I asked him some things today." He chuckles. "Interrogated is probably a better word."

"You didn't," I say, blinded by my own tears.

"Yeah...yeah, I did. And I'm glad I did."

I shake my head, wishing I could have handled this better. Wishing I could have shown him someone stronger.

"I asked him what he loved most about you. I ex-expected him to say something usual, predictable, like your eyes or-or your ambition. But his answer wasn't something I expected...and it made me understand, Scarlett."

"Understand what?"

He turns his head to me on the pillow.

"Your tears."

"My tears?"

He nods, swallowing deeply. "He said that he loved that they always mean something, that you never cry just to cry. He said you cry and your tears hold the whole weight of the world. That it's when you cry that you truly speak to him, and that it's when you cry that he loves you most."

His hand slowly brushes the corner of my cheek, along the wetness, and I close my eyes, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest as he brushes my weighty tears away.

"He said it without a thought, without a stutter, Scarlett. That's not normal," he confesses, lowering his hand. "That's rare."

I nod, unable to answer him. I want to beg, beg him not to die. Beg him rewind time, to find a way to do that.

"Don't listen to a word I said before. Don't let him go."

I shake my head from side to side, over and over. "I-I won't. I won't."

"He's right too. Your tears are the statement of your strength and it-it makes me proud that you have any for me."

"Stop," I beg him, overwhelmed. I'm so overwhelmed. This morning, I ate breakfast with this man. This morning, he wasn't at his worst—and now, I'm sitting here, waiting for the moment his eyes are going to close. Every choking gasp, every lingering blink, every meaningful word—I'm expecting it to happen. My body jumps, physically jumps, my heart leaping every time I think he's gone.

But it's not time. He's just sleeping. His eyes are just shut. His chest is still moving up and down. I stare at him, like that for a long time, wondering what life will be like when he's gone. I wonder if I'll be any different, if this will scar me or heal me.

I turn, and look at the door, finding Giovanni leaning against it, his arms crossed over his body. He's simply staring at me. There's so much and so little in his gaze. He knows what this feels like. He's lost a father. He's lost him from disease.

The confession Norman told me about this man in my sight is the only thing I can think of. And I'm blown away by just how powerfully he can love, how much within him is prepared to heel to my needs.

Norman talked of a look...a look only my mother gave him. A look no person could replicate. It was a private, singular declaration—a meaning only someone else can give to you.

It's a look of complete understanding. A look a person can only give you when they stare through your chest, and possess the power to tear it out without a single move against you. A look that finds every fault, and for a split moment, erases their existence.

It's a look that shreds you to pieces, to only regenerate the splintered remains, puzzling them back together, because only the person who can stare at you like that, can work their way around the mess without fucking everything up.

And it's the look Giovanni is giving me right now, at the other side of the room.

I can detect it without a doubt, and it's not fleeting. He holds it, and I know it's the real thing.

Norman said this is rare. It's not normal.

And god, I know it. I do.

I leave my place by the bed, and walk until I'm running to him.

Giovanni's arms surround me, his hands holding my head into his chest gently. I grasp onto his shirt, wetting the material with my cheeks. I silently beg him to hold me tighter, and as if he can read my thoughts, he does, his head tilting into my hair.

My eyes close, an exhale of relief leaving my mouth as I press myself into the curve between his throat and chin, tucked safety in his arms.

"I love you," I whisper.

...

Even the doctor has nothing more to do. He's standing in the corner of the room, a grave look that's been on his face for hours. None of us have gone to sleep, or even left the room.

Just a nurse, a doctor, Giovanni and me.

I've sat here, waiting for Norman to resurface, waiting for the chance to finish our conversation, tell him all I still need to, and the longer he remains unconscious, the more I begin to believe I won't ever get to.

The nurse is seated on the loveseat, a book on her lap, still unopened. Giovanni is underneath me in the chair, holding me like a child in his lap. With the calm steady beat in his chest to ground me, my eyes continue to fight sleep, staring at Norman's body on the bed. In sleep, his breathing is irregular. His arms have darkened, giving the skin a blue undertone. Five minutes ago, the span between his breaths was twenty seconds.

That's how long it took him to breathe.

It made me think of how many people there are in this world that have witnessed this exact same moment. How many people have had to endure years of watching someone go through this kind of pain.

And I wonder how many people prayed for the ones they love to die, like I am now.

I want it to end. I want him to find peace, and relief.

I want him to die without having to open his eyes and feel one more ounce of hurt.

I pray for him to die in his sleep, so he's gone and free from all of this.

As much as I want to let him know I'm here, that his daughter is here and forgives him at the very end, I want the end to be quick far more. No struggled breaths, no frantic eyes, no fear.

Death has been a fragment built deep in my marrow, a familiar memory, embedded into the very fabric of who I am. I've lost a mother I knew I loved deeply, and a mother I didn't even know existed, but love now. I knew the concept of death from a young age, because it was always so close within reach.

But I've never seen death up this close.

It's a fucking terrifying thing.

I keep remembering a moment. It continues to appear in my mind, like an alarm you cannot seem to shut off. The day Norman showed up in Detroit. It was the day of the funeral. My father was already in prison, awaiting sentencing. There were three people there, and most of the savings that were left to me, a new adult, were spent on that funeral. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me, because they didn't know me. I didn't know them.

I was the odd girl, the girl who never leaves the house, the girl who refuses to leave her mother's side. And I remember Norman appearing. He had been watching from afar, a few plots down. I remember his face now, when he approached me. I thought he'd known my mother somehow, that he'd taken pity on a young girl who'd suddenly lost the world.

What I didn't know is that slow hesitant approach, that look of caution and regret in his expression when he finally stood in front of me were the eyes of a father who was trying to right his biggest wrong.

He did what he knew I'd accept, and he offered me a new city, a new job prospect—a new start. He told me I'd begin at the lowest part of the chain, and depending on how I take to it, maybe there would be more in that future.

On the plane ride to New York City, he asked me how I was holding up, to which I replied, "I'm glad."

"Glad for what?" he asked.

"That she got away," I answered.

I was damaged, and he could see it. I remember how much I liked him that he didn't answer me on that, or force me to explain. He was smart enough to understand. I don't know, now that I know everything, maybe it was his guilt that silenced him.

Because guilt is an odd thing.

We rarely ever deserve to feel it, and yet, it's physically impossible to get rid of. No matter how many people drill into your brain that you're not to blame, it's there, eating at your insides.

I can only imagine how long his has been gnawing at his body.

I can only hope he knows that his guilt was what brought us back together, was what right his wrongs. We've had a short span of time without secrets between us, but that time has been spent with careful reflection, as it should have been.

"Scarlett."

At Giovanni's whisper, I glance up at his chin, and then turn my head to Norman, who's opened his eyes, and is blinking up at the ceiling. As every hair on my body stands to attention, his breathing comes in desperate drones, difficult, short gasps of air.

My face cracks, my chest bleeding at the sight as my fear becomes reality.

He woke up.

I scramble off of Giovanni, gasping, only able to think that my father is dying. He's dying and I can't let him die alone. I climb onto the bed, and notice the doctor straightening, but he remains planted in his place. He isn't needed.

This is the end.

With no grace, no caution whatsoever, I crawl over the mattress and lay flat beside him, wrapping my arms around his body as he struggles to breathe, struggles to take his last gasps of air. His breathing is so shallow, so congested. I rest my head on his shoulder, crying for all the lost years, and all the ones we'll never get.

I cry at the fact that I've gotten a father only to have him taken away this fast.

I weep into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter, sure that if I'm giving him any pain right now, it's redeemed by the safe reassurance of my arms. The knowledge of knowing someone, someone you love, that loves you back will be there the moment you leave.

His breaths grow less desperate as if he doesn't need them as badly anymore.

And I try to tell him everything, everything I can in those last moments.

"I love you."

"It's okay to go. I'll be okay. It's going to be okay."

"I love you, dad."

My last words, "Thank you," are uttered at the exact moment I feel his chest sink, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth.

The exact moment he's gone.

I lay there, not saying another word, waiting for another gasp even though I know it's not going to come. Holding my breath, my eyes dart across the room to the doctor, who has his head down, his arms crossed over his chest. To the nurse, who is at the edge of the couch, a look on her face that lets me know she's seen this before. And then to Giovanni, who's standing at the end of the bed, his eyes wide, and swarmed with water.

It's the look on his face, and the endless realizations in my mind that begin to sink in, filling me with horror and the striking, desolate feeling of loss. And forces me to turn back to Norman, and lower down onto him, as my pain erupts from deep within me, escaping my throat in low, gutting sounds.

The grief is sharp, and blinding, and so fucking real.

It's not hard to lose myself in it.

I hear the door squeak softly as it's shut, the room leaving me to this moment.

But before I can feel alone, clutching to the lifeless person who made me, Giovanni's fingers graze my ankle with hesitance, until his hand wraps completely around it by the end of the bed. The mattress sinks as he sits, prepared to wait with me until I'm ready to go.

Until I'm ready to let go.