[He opens his mouth to reply, to explain that he's not upset, that this isn't her fault, that his head has been on fire for so long that he can't remember what it was like to have a coherent thought about anything, let alone something important like this. But the only thing that comes out is a few wheezy, struggled noises.
Still holding tight to her hand, he fumbles for the discarded pen and writes with a shaky hand:]
I'm sorry. Thank you for trusting me with those words.
[And, though he still doesn't understand just what those words fully mean, he writes beneath that over the top of where his tears have fallen and dampened the paper:]
It's going to be fine, but I love you, too.
[Because even though he doesn't understand it, if he can make her feel better somehow by saying it, that would be enough.]
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Still holding tight to her hand, he fumbles for the discarded pen and writes with a shaky hand:]
I'm sorry. Thank you for trusting me with those words.
[And, though he still doesn't understand just what those words fully mean, he writes beneath that over the top of where his tears have fallen and dampened the paper:]
It's going to be fine, but I love you, too.
[Because even though he doesn't understand it, if he can make her feel better somehow by saying it, that would be enough.]