The hospital room was a sterile void,
Its white walls and antiseptic hush
A jarring contrast to the chaotic vibrancy
Of Celeste's studio.
Elias sat beside her bed,
His notebook splayed across his lap,
The pen idle in his hand—
Words slipping beyond his grasp,
Carried off by a wind of grief and relief.
Celeste lay motionless,
Her breathing even,
The fresh bandages on her wrists
A silent accusation of the abyss
She had nearly crossed.
He traced her hand with his fingertips,
Marveling at its delicate strength.
"You're still here,"
He whispered—
A prayer not to the gods,
But to the trembling space
Between them.
Her eyes drifted open,
And she turned to him,
A faint smile
Softening her lips.
"You saved me,"
She croaked,
Her voice brittle
With disuse.
He shook his head.
"You saved yourself.
I was just… there."
Her fingers tightened around his.
"Let's go home,"
She said,
Her gaze lingering
On the distant sea
Beyond the window
Home—
Their haven of art and love,
Of cracked ceilings, coffee-stained hopes,
And dreams etched in pencil and paint.
Elias helped her up,
His own strength flickering back to life,
Fanned by her breath
And the promise of another dawn.
In their apartment,
The air hummed
With the tang of paint and ink.
Celeste faced a blank canvas,
Her brush trembling
With uncertainty.
From his desk, Elias watched,
His pen coaxing verses from the marrow of his soul.
"What should I paint?"
She asked,
Her voice still fragile,
A whisper reborn.
"Paint us," he replied,
His eyes locking with hers.
"Paint our story."
She dipped her brush into color,
Strokes unfurling like memories
Across the white void.
And he wrote—
Words threading through their shared pain and fragile hope,
Stitching soul to canvas,
Breath to page.
Their art blossomed:
A painting of two figures,
Clasped in a storm of light.
Poems that breathed
With every heartbeat.
Yet beneath this dawn,
Elias's illness gnawed—
A slow fire in his chest,
A cough that rattled like thunder
In a house of matchsticks.
Blood flecked his handkerchief,
A grim shadow
Lurking behind the gold.
But still, they persisted.
Their love,
A defiant flame.
Their work,
A testament to a world
That did not yet mourn them.
Together,
They wove light
From brokenness,
And dared to create
While the tide
Still rose.