the cancer came back.

she was still young.

he cried often these days.

the hospital bed was tiny, near a window. everything was gray.

she lost her energy. she didn't smile as often. her hands became translucent, you could see every vein and bone in body. her ribs stuck out beneath the plain, thin hospital dress.

but she still held his hand and squeezed it sometimes. he didn't squeeze as hard, he could have broken her hands easily.

but he still held on.

"margaret," he'd say and she'd blink at him, waiting for something, but it never came.

she looked older than she was. she lost her hair, she lost her shine, her mouth closed permanently after a while. he wouldn't ask her to talk. she'd only listen, and when she did, you couldn't tell if she was awake. her eyes would glaze over, but he'd ramble anyway.

she'd cry and laugh suddenly, but with barely any noise. her laugh didn't ring in his ears.

she had lost everything.

but he still held her hand.

it was a cold, january day when her hand didn't squeeze his anymore. her eyes didn't escape that glaze. she no longer said eli.

the heart monitor stopped.

he still held her hand.