I sit on the edge of the bed mopping your forehead with a damp facecloth. You've been sick for so long. I long for the moment when you will open your eyes and look at me. I also know it may never come. I don't think I've slept much since you got sick, but I'm so tired I can't remember. The waiting is too nerve-wracking for sleep. My world would change entirely if you let go. I hate waiting; I've always been impatient, but now there's nothing I can do but wait.

I wonder what you're dreaming about. I wonder if dreams are different when you're hallucinating. In your moments of consciousness you call out for me and even when I reply you don't know I'm there. I cry a lot. If you wake up you'll never know; I'll never tell you. I wonder how long I can go on like this before I crash. I try not to think about it; it's not even an option. Instead I draw the facecloth across your forehead and chest. My fingers have bunched the facecloth so tight that they brush over your skin. I wish the lightest touch could save you, but it can't.

When you got sick I started to believe in a higher power; it was something to cling to. You'd laugh if you knew the truth. I can't stop wondering about how much you really know about me. But how much do I know about me and how much do I know about you? I may never really know.

After each time you go through a cold sweat I always change your pyjamas. Do you have any idea how difficult that is with you like a rag doll? Of course not! You're not even aware I'm doing anything!

You stir in your unconscious state; it's a bit creepy really. I hope if you're dying that you're not within yourself. I know that having shingles is painful and I don't want you to be in pain. I love you too much to see you in pain. I want a sign of some sort to prove that everything I've been doing for two weeks hasn't been in vain. I know you love me and that will never change, but that somehow doesn't seem enough now.

I hope you can hear me as I whisper in your ear. Often you moan as you sleep and I hope it's not out of pain, but at the same time it is a reminder you're still with me. I'm tired and frustrated with the whole situation. I know I look like I've haven't showered in two weeks and I haven't. None of this matters right now though. I only wish I knew what's going through your head right now.

I hear a sigh from you. It's odd. You haven't sighed once in two weeks. Maybe things are improving. I call the doctor once again. He must be so annoyed with me by now. I urge him to come over once more to make sure I haven't missed anything. I watch you blink in the bed and for the first time in two weeks I smile.