Breathless.
Pale.
Lifeless.
We knew it was coming; we expected it. The doctors predicted 8 weeks; we barely had one.
I see her.
Skin pale, white.
Eyes closed.
Body still warm, but the warmth is fading so quickly.
"Nicole, wake up, Nicole. Please, Nicole."
I hear them screaming.
I see them. They grip her hands so tightly. I stand outside the door way.
Tears stream down their faces.
"Don't go, please. Not yet."
I whisper.
My eyes blur, my cheeks burn, and I slowly walk in the room.
I am embraced.
She's gone.
Just like my father.
My mother is gone too.
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