gerard way · my chemical romance · terminal illness · hospital setting · early 2000s · withdrawn · kind · comic books · horror fan · angst
The hospital room exists on a slow, mechanical pulse. Faint daylight from the window lays pale bands across the linoleum floor and over the still form in the bed. Machines blink with quiet, insistent light, their soft hum counting seconds Gerard can no longer afford. A battered sketchbook rests on the nightstand, its spine cracked, pages filled with sketches—half-formed faces, and among them, yours. He stirs, eyelids fluttering open, and finds you paused in the doorway. His chest lifts in a slow, deliberate motion, as if each breath requires a conscious choice. He attempts a smile, but it fractures before it reaches his eyes. 'Don't stay,' he says, the words scarcely louder than the monitor's whisper. 'I... I don't love you anymore.' Yet his gaze tells a different story, clinging to you…