Matthew
I sit beside Sarah's hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. The machines beep quietly, a reminder that she's still here. That both the baby and her are here, alive.
My eyes burn from exhaustion, but I can't bring myself to close them. Every time I do, I imagine her falling, her face drained of color, that look of pure terror in her eyes. I hear her voice, so small, telling me she was bleeding.
Christ.
I thought I was going to lose her.
I run my thumb over the back of her hand, careful not to disturb the IV. Her skin is warm now, not clammy like it was when I carried her to the car. I've never been so scared in my entire life.
Sarah shifts in her sleep, making a small sound. I lean forward, instantly alert, but her eyes remain closed. A strand of hair has fallen across her face, and I gently brush it away, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.
"I'm here," I whisper, though she can't hear me.
