I used to dream about you dying. It wasn't something one would call a nightmare, really. It was darker. But most things are now.
The dream didn't happen with any consistency, but when it did, it would always end the same way:
I would wake up, not remembering where I was at first, the room in a haze. And almost immediately my heart would constrict and I'd jump to my feet, convinced you had died - and that I had caused it. That I'd willed it somehow.
And I would look at the machines - always the machines, as I only looked directly at you when it was absolutely necessary, because I feared doing so would weaken my resolve. They would be beeping rhythmically, slowly, keeping time with your ragged breath, while you hovered between life and death as you had so many times before.
I'd walk to the window then and watch the snow fall on The Charles. It was beautiful. You always seemed to get the rooms with the best views. And you always made a return visit during the winter - mostly during the holidays, so I was able to enjoy them.
After a while, I would return to your bedside, taking your hand in mine to whisper desperately, willing you to hear me and come back to the world. And willing you to change once you did. All the while knowing you wouldn't.
Then I would cry a little, but only a little - and less each time it happened - before the anger would take over and find release through clenched teeth, "Just do it then... Just. Die. Already."
And then I would wake up. And my heart would constrict as I leapt to my feet to look at the machines, convinced you had died - and that I had caused it. That I'd willed it somehow.