He hadn’t spent much time here at her bedside. It was hard to explain why. Of course he missed her. Of course he wanted her to be alright again. But this – this was not how they were supposed to have met again, if they were going to ever meet again. It felt wrong. Like this, she couldn’t so much as tell him to leave if she wanted to – so for all Elias knew, Irene wouldn’t even want him to be here. He had no right to be, if they were not even friends anymore.

So he never stayed long, in case he was encroaching on her space or bringing back bad memories to her, somehow, unconsciously. Elias had spent more time looking at that painting of three ships at his parents’ house than here, just watching the waves eternally lapping gently but the ships sinking lower and lower in the water with the days and weeks and months. There was a constant ebb and flow of worry in his gut.

Maybe the one mercy of this – although it wasn’t right that she was lying there so pale and listless, so unlike herself; he had always known her to be moving, eyes dancing, smiles dimpling her cheeks – was that at least they didn’t need to talk. He could pretend these were the old days, when their friendship had been easy, before things had capsized completely and she’d gone.

So he worked up the courage to visit, once in a while, and sat there beside her until the awkwardness of being there had ebbed away, then lapsing into thought, squeezing her hand briefly as he came and left, and occasionally talking to her (maybe just to feel like he was achieving something by being here). Nothing useful, nothing deep, just “Hello,” and “how are you?” and “I miss you, you know.” And it wouldn’t make any difference, and besides, he couldn’t stay.

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