Cyril had walked those hospital corridors so many times, they felt like part of his skin — cold, sterile, painfully familiar. But not comforting. Never comforting. Each visit carved something out of him. He would take the stairs every time, not to stay fit, but to avoid the sympathetic eyes, the rehearsed condolences, the suffocating pity.

In his hand: a small bouquet of white roses. A gesture, more for the doctors and the family than for her. Larissa wouldn’t see them. Wouldn’t smell them.
She hadn’t opened her eyes in weeks.

She was in a coma — alive in body, lost in mind.

Cyril placed the flowers in the vase, as always. He sat in the same chair. Adjusted the same blanket. Whispered the same meaningless things.

But not that day.

The Silence That Spoke Louder Than Anything
Larissa had been unconscious for 47 days. Cyril kept count. At first, he hoped. Prayed. Then he waited. Then — he began to drift.

He couldn’t admit it aloud, but somewhere deep inside, a quiet thought began to form:

“What if she never wakes up?”

The bills were piling up. Her parents asked questions he couldn’t answer. His job was slipping away. And more terrifying than all of that was this:

He didn’t feel like her husband anymore. He felt like her guardian. Her jailer. Her shadow.

And so, that day, when no one was looking, when the machines beeped their indifferent rhythm, Cyril leaned close to her ear, as if in prayer, and whispered:

«If you can hear me… let go. You don’t have to keep fighting. I can’t do this anymore.»

It came out softer than he expected. Almost kind.
He sat back. Closed his eyes.
And for the first time since her collapse — he felt something like relief.

But it lasted exactly two minutes.

The Machines Screamed
The flat, steady rhythm of the heart monitor shuddered.
A high-pitched alarm.
The whoosh of ventilators changing rhythm.
Footsteps. Panic. Shouts in the hallway.

Nurses rushed in. A doctor followed.
Cyril was pushed aside, left watching from the hallway as the room became a blur of motion.

She was coding.
Heart stopping.
Letting go.

Just as he asked.

«She Heard Me»
They brought her back.
Twenty-three minutes of chaos. CPR. Drugs. Defibrillation.
She lived.

But Cyril didn’t feel victorious.
He felt gutted.

She’d responded. Not with words. Not with movement. But her body… had answered his plea.
She had tried to leave — for him.

And now, he couldn’t stop hearing his own voice:

“Let go.”

The Guilt That Ate Everything
That night, Cyril didn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat.
He sat in their empty apartment, replaying every second.
How he leaned in. How close his lips were to her ear.
What if that was all she needed to hear?

What if she really did hear him — and obeyed?

The next morning, he returned to the hospital with red tulips, not white roses.
He sat by her side and took her hand.
And for the first time in over a month, he whispered something new:

«I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Stay. Please, stay.»

Then — Something Happened
Five days later, a nurse called him at 3:17 AM.
Her voice was trembling:

«She… opened her eyes.»

Larissa didn’t speak. But she looked at him. And squeezed his hand.
He broke down completely.
Not from joy — but from the weight of what could have been. Of what he had asked.
And how close she came to giving it to him.

Today, No One Knows the Full Story
Larissa is still recovering. She may never remember the coma. Or what she might have heard.
But Cyril remembers every word he said that day.
And he swore, in front of her bed:

“I will never again ask for something I’m not ready to lose.”

He never brings white flowers anymore. Only tulips. Peonies. Wildflowers. Anything but white.
He says white reminds him of silence. And regret.

This isn’t a story people like to tell. But it’s true.
Sometimes, words — whispered in weakness — echo louder than screams.
And sometimes, someone on the edge… is listening.