I didn't have the strength to.
When I woke again, a frustrated sigh slipped from my lips before I could stop it.
The dose had been too small.
I was still alive.
The disappointment was dull but heavy, settling deep inside me.
Turning my head slightly, I noticed a bottle of allergy medication sitting on the nightstand. Beneath it was a small note, the paper slightly crumpled at the edges.
[Take your meds when you wake up. I'll be there in a few minutes.]
There was no signature.
But I didn't need one.
I knew that handwriting too well.
A long time ago, we used to leave notes like this for each other all the time. Back when things were different, back when his care wasn't something I had to question. Before the blood-bound alliance had turned into a cage. Before Celeste. Before the ninety-nine deaths that taught me what this family truly cost.
His reminders would be stuck to the fridge every single day.
[Wear something warm. It's cold today.]
[No ice during your period.]
[Text me if you're out late. I'll come pick you up.]
Simple words.
Small things.
But they had once meant everything.
Then one day, the fridge was replaced.
And with it, those notes disappeared.
No one ever mentioned them again.