You didn’t die. In the darkened ward your eyes swam, a morphine-induced kaleidoscope, hot and and sudden cold fevers ran in waves. The distant pain had names, forearm, skull and ribs. Helpless in opiate’s sway, her name came clawing out of your throat, ardent and raw. The comforting nurse, “she’s OK, she’s OK.” Adjustment to your drip, hourly observations, flickering torchlights. Hunger. Pain.

”I’m afraid she lost it.” A life you never knew about, a story you never read, until it was over.

You didn’t die. Everything else did.