He had been in the hospital for almost a year, and since then, everything had gone horribly downhill. After months and months of praying and hoping, nothing seemed to work.
His condition worsened every day, bringing him closer and closer to death with each new morning.
It was pitch black outside, well after midnight. I gazed half-heartedly at the monitor. His heart rate was now beginning to decrease, and it seemed like life was escaping him with each new, painful breath. It was just too much to bear. With tears in my eyes, I placed a soft kiss to his forehead. I don't want to see him like this anymore. I can't. He doesn't deserve to live like this.
"It's okay, baby, you can go. I love you," I whispered to him quietly.
He weakly reached up and placed a cold hand against my cheek, and I held it there with my own, stroking it gently with my thumb. A few tears trailed down my face, landing on our hands. His breathing slowly deteriorated then stopped completely, his hand turned limp and fell from my face. It was over. After so many months of holding on by a thread, he let go at my word, almost like he was waiting for my approval.
