In the last split seconds of her time at the hospital, she has to force herself to breathe. She thinks it must be the hardest thing she's ever had to do. The baby's eyes are closed, but she thinks she may have the prettiest eyes, the most beautiful eyes she's ever seen. She watches her in the nursery, all cold skin and warm eyes and tiny hand pressed against the window.

She wants to hold her one more time. She wants to pick her up and sway her gently in her arms, rock her to sleep and watch her pale eyes flutter closed. She wants to press her lips into her baby's soft forehead and place her back in the blankets, watch as she sleeps, just one last time.

She knows she can't do this (it hurts, it hurts) but she knows as well that it's the best thing. She can't take care of a baby. She can't. It's not possible; she's afraid she'll drop her or hurt her and it would hurt too much.

She walks away, turning away from the window in a last desperate attempt to pretend she doesn't care. She walks slowly, in tiny, coordinated steps, as if she's afraid she'll fall.

He is silent, deathly so, almost uneasy to speak. He walks beside her, following her lead, synchronizing their steps. She doesn't look at him - not directly - but she knows he sees right through her facade, sees her pain and sorrow yet doesn't say a word.

As they walk, in those slow, agonizing moments, he takes her hand. He doesn't look at her purposefully - she sees it, she knows it - but walks with her anyway, hand covering hers, wanting her to see he knows. He must know he more than anyone.

She doesn't know what to make of it - his hand, hers, pressed together and touching and their bodies nearly in perfect sync. She doesn't know what to say and so she says nothing. She laces her fingers tightly through his and they walk a little closer together (not too much, just enough) as they emerge from the dark hallway to the doors outside.

She doesn't know what it means to him, what it even means to her, but only that he doesn't let go. He grasps her hand like a lifeline, as if letting go would cause him great pain.

In the split seconds that they stand outside the hospital, she understands him more than anyone, and he admits without words that he's always known her far better than he knows himself.