***
The antiseptic sting of hospital air clung to her breath. Machines hummed softly around them, each beep marking seconds she couldn't hold back.
Ciel lay against the flat white pillow, skin paper-pale, lashes dark against his cheeks. His sketchbook rested closed by his side — too heavy for his trembling hands to lift.
Elara sat by the bed, fingers woven with his, though his grip had grown so faint it felt like holding mist.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking like glass. "I wanted… more Tuesdays with you."
"Don't," she choked out, pressing her forehead against the back of his hand. "We still have this one."
His lips curved into something softer than a smile — a memory of one.
"Draw me," she whispered. "One last time."
"I don't have to," he murmured, voice fading like breath on glass. "You've always been here."
His eyelids fluttered, once, twice. And then the quiet took him.
She pressed her cheek against his knuckles, willing warmth back into cold skin, whispering his name until it no longer sounded real.
Outside the window, the world went on: cars moved, leaves shifted in wind, and beyond the glass, a single Tuesday rain fell — silent witness to goodbye.
When the nurse gently pried her hand away, his sketchbook slipped from the sheets. It fell open on the floor, showing only one unfinished drawing:
Her face, turned slightly away. As if even in art, love had come too late to see her fully.
***