This morning, I awake from a nightmare. My blankets are twisted around my legs, and my face is damp with sweat and tears. I'm running my hands through my hair, breathing hungrily, when I see Todd.

He lifts his head and gets to his feet, pushing back the chair he was sitting in. "Neil?" Placing his soft, cool hand on the side of my face, he studies me with bloodshot eyes. "You okay?"

I close my eyes and lean into his touch. My breathing slows. "Just dreams," I tell him dismissively, and I hope he'll let it rest. I just want to sit with him for a while before I have to tell him.

And fortunately, in his typical fashion, Todd accepts dismissal. I feel him lean slowly towards me. "I hate this," he whispers, without even a hint of selfishness in his tone. Part of me is clawing at my insides, wishing I could just tell him and let him leave and wallow in my depression.

The other part of me feels the gentle pressure of his lips against my forehead, and I know I couldn't survive if he left.

I open my eyes, reaching up to touch his face. I trace the line of his cheekbone, then his jaw, with the tip of my index finger. Never have I seen beauty and purity more thoroughly manifested in human form. His bangs twitch as if there was a breeze in this stuffy room, and his stormy blue eyes never break from my own. "I love you," I whisper.

I watch his lips part in preparation to speak, but no words escape. Todd's face slowly crumples, and I pull him into my arms. His tears quickly soak through my hospital gown. I know he's needed this for a while now.

"I love you, Neil, I love you, I love you," he chants between silent sobs.

I wrap my arms tighter around his trembling frame, guiding his head into the crook of my neck, and rock gently back and forth. Not once do I shush him, or tell him to stop. This is the least I can give him, the very least he deserves. I weave my fingers into his hair, gradually sliding over to the other side of the bed, and he reluctantly pulls away to position himself beside me.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he whimpers softly. He crosses his hands in his lap, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "I don't know."

Slowly, purposefully, I wrap my arms around him. He gives in without hesitation, burrowing deeper and deeper into my bony embrace, until neither one of us could say where I stop and he begins. I rest my chin atop his head. "You've done plenty."

I hear him inhale sharply several times, as if he wants to say something but his lungs are in disagreement. After a few beats, he finally relaxes against me, and when his breathing levels out, I realize that he's fallen asleep.

For a moment, there is silence. But I've come to find that silence never lasts. Before long, I pick up the steady ticking of Todd's wristwatch. Footsteps overhead. The sound of breathing, in and out. I've learned to relish those rare moments when there is perfect silence, when I can hear myself think for only a split second. Those moments are really the only time I can think anymore. My brain is static, sparking and fizzling, rendered useless.

Dr. Peterson comes in after some time, empty-handed, his reading glasses crooked on his nose. Before I can even shake Todd awake, he is alert. We untangle our limbs, but we don't separate completely. Even if Todd was uncomfortable with Peterson in the room, I don't think he would've had the strength to move. He never reaches a state of restful sleep anymore. He's a drone. A loving one, but still a drone. As am I.

Peterson pulls a chair over and sits down. His face is expressionless, his eyes glassy.

He speaks.

And in the year-long minute that passes next, I realize that silence can, in fact, last.