On the morning of the procedure, the nurses guided me onto a gurney in the operating room. Nigel squeezed my hand.
“You still have time to back out,” he said softly.
“I won’t,” I replied. “If this works, I want you to be the first thing I see.”
His breath caught. He kissed my forehead.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
“Of losing you.”
The anesthesia crept through my veins, and the world slipped away.
When I woke up, my head felt heavy.
My eyes were wrapped in thick bandages. Machines beeped softly around me.
“Nigel?” My voice sounded small.
“I’m here,” he said immediately.
Something in his tone was wrong. There was no excitement. No triumph.
“Was the surgery unsuccessful?” I asked.
“It was successful. You’ll finally be able to see,” he said. But there wasn’t any joy in his voice.
My stomach twisted.
