ISLA~
"I'm fine, am I not?" she asked.
I got up from the low armchair. This wasn't me—getting all frantic and terrified over a person. But she wasn't just a person. She was Elara Jones—the woman I was constantly losing my sense of self for. The woman whose chest I had watched sink and rise in desperate, silent gasps just hours ago.
"Say something," she whispered after I stood there in total silence.
"Don't try to talk too much. The doctor said you shouldn't," I said, my voice deliberately flat as I turned toward the door, trying to put distance between us before my composure dissolved completely.
"Please stay," her voice rasped, the sheets rustling as she forced herself upright. "Please, Isla."
I stopped. Closing my eyes for a fraction of a second, I turned back toward her.
"What about the award ceremony?" I asked.
She shook her head against the pillows, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "I don't think..."
"I wouldn't even let you," I cut in.
