The hall is long beyond that back door, but I move down in quickly and easily. This is a place I’ve been before, but I’ve never been here as a visitor, so it feels different somehow. I feel less connection to it, taller, less enveloped. I feel like I rule it, not the other way around.

He’s in room 208, one I’ve actually stayed in before myself. It's a quiet little area, but not so quiet that nearby rooms can't hear you and the other way around, so he'll probably hear me coming as I walk up. Maybe he'll think I'm a nurse or something. He never visited me, but then again I never told him I was there. I didn’t want him to know, I didn’t want him to follow. That wasn’t what we were.

We’d made that promise after the first night that there would be ground rules. We wouldn’t be seen together, wouldn’t give others the opportunity to make comments, jokes, anything like that. We wouldn’t give out interactions and affections a name, wouldn’t say we were a couple, in love, or even together. No labels. Nothing to tie us down. Just friends who happen to understand each other a little too well, both in and out of bed.

You don’t visit someone like that when they’re in the hospital unless it’s really serious. He might have come, if I’d asked him or told him. But I didn’t. I play by the rules.

Well, until now.

I see the room up ahead, more a curtained off area than an actual room in the traditional sense of the word, and I hesitate outside. I don’t need to be here. We agreed. I should respect that, shouldn’t I? But I came through those doors, I walked down this hall. I’m here. That’s not enough, but its a start, and I need to see it through.

Just as I'm about to enter, I spot his chart in the holder by the wall. My breath catches in my throat as every fiber of my focus centers onto those. Those charts could tell me everything, from his height in numbers to his white blood cell count. It's a sloppy medical mistake to leave that chart just sitting there, one that can cause a plethora of lawsuits, but I take advantage of it now. With a hasty glance around to check for nurses, I snatch it up and flip the top page to see exactly what he’s in for. My eyes make their way down the page, noting weight, birthday, vaccination status, and then…

I shut my eyes.

Damn it.

I know what pneumonia does to the immune system, especially an impaired one like what Anon has. It can and does kill people like that, and if it gets complicated, it can kill quickly enough where the doctors can’t stop it or even make it really comfortable. How bad is his? How far along is he? I steel myself before looking at the rest of the chart, knowing what it might say and mean for him. Then I open my eyes and read on.

I suck in a sharp breath, then let it out in a long, slow sigh.

They have it under control. Thank Celestia, they have it taken care of, medicated, on the mend. He’s just here for a day or two to make sure that he’s recovering well, then he goes home.

I shut the chart and put it back in its holder with a relieved shudder. Then, for an instant, I ask myself if that changes anything. Would it have been different if he was on death’s doorstep? Now that I know he’s just fine, should I leave well enough alone? It would be easy to just turn around and walk away, pretend I never came.

I stand between the room and the hallway back, caught there, wavering. Then I push myself that one final step and I fall forward towards Anon.

Without a knock or anything to announce myself, I push back the curtain and enter the room.

He sits up in bed as I enter, eyes registering shock, but not displeasure. Maybe he’s glad I came to see him. But I can also see the worry. Did anyone see me come in here? What do I know about his condition? Do other people know he’s sick? Why am I coming to see him like this, when I said we wouldn’t go prying into each others’ lives. When we agreed that this wasn’t the kind of relationship we had.

“Berry what-” he begins to say.

I hold up a hoof to silence him mid sentence.

“Look, before you say anything, I need to…get some things off my chest,” I say.

He shuts his mouth and waits patiently for me to go on.

Suddenly, all those calm, clear thoughts in my head are scattered. I mentally reach out but I can only find bits and pieces remaining. Why is this so hard? This shouldn’t be so hard. But I’m here now, with him, and he’s listening. So I just start speaking, and let the shards of my ideas flow in a jumbled, cutting mess.

“I know that what we have is not something normal,” I say. “We knew that when this first happened. The way it happened? I have no regrets, and I don’t think you do either. And there were some very hot, very magical nights we’ve spent together, and don’t think for a second I’m not grateful for all of that.”

He laughs a little, and I do too. But this isn’t a time for laughter. Get to the point, Berry.

“And I know we decided we never wanted to be that couple. I know we said that this was to remain something different, secret, quiet, intimate but casual, and you know, I’ve been fine with that. I really have. I know we’re not ashamed of each other, things are just simple and easy and straightforward this way. This keeps it you and me. Just us. I like just us. Because…well…other people…”

I can feel a buildup of words and thoughts threatening to overflow into the open, and I finally let them.

“I hate other people,” I blurt out. “I hate their stupid pity, I hate the way they just go on with life and assume I have the same time and future they do. I hate how happy they are, and I hate how unhappy they are because from my perspective? So much of it is trivial. So much of it is just something that will be over in a week and they’ll never think about it again, so why think about it now? And I know I’m being harsh, I know I’m judging people unfairly, and I’m sorry for that. I really am, I’m sorry all the time. I want people to be happy, I try to make them happy. I don’t want to let on that I need too, that I want too, that sometimes I have things in my life I have strong feelings about. Because damn that pity and sadness that they show flashes of when they find out what’s wrong with me and how long I’ve got left.”

I can feel tears at the corners of my eyes, building and swelling with each word. I hate them. I hate how they make me look like some caterwauling little girl, how they make me feel like I can’t even control my own emotions. I can’t control my life, I can’t control my body, and now I can’t control my emotions. I manage to keep my voice steady, but the torrent of words keeps coming.

“And I’m tired, ok? I’m so tired of being the one who cheers everyone up. I’m tired of being ok when I’m not ok. I’m tired of nodding and partying and pretending nothing has changed, when every day I can feel parts of me change, for better but mostly for worse. I am tired of faking smiles and laughs. I’m tired of being strong because it’s what’s best. I hate being weak, and this is me being weak now, but I’m so tired that I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of playing the part of who I was two months ago, and I’m tired of pretending…”

Say it. Just say it. It’s not as hard as it feels.

“I’m tired of pretending that I care what other people think of my feelings. For you. Fuck them, and fuck their judgement and their pity. Because, from the moment we started seeing each other, in whatever capacity you want to call it, I’ve never had to fake a smile for you. I’ve done it once or twice by choice, but I’ve never had to, and I don’t want to anymore. I will never fake a smile around you again, and I’m ok with that. I’ve never seen you look at me with pity. I’ve never felt that you wanted me to be the pony I was rather than the pony I am. I’ve been happier with you than I have been with anyone else before. And you know, maybe it’s that we’re both sick. We’re both dying, I get that.”

I don’t even stumble over the word dying anymore. I don’t know when I was first able to do that. Maybe right now.

“We both understand how all this works, what things are the most important right now. And…you’re sick now. Sicker than me, I always thought I’d go first to be honest. Neither of us have long and with you here, in this bed… But I don’t care. Fuck what people think, fuck any social or personal rules I might have thought were important. This makes me happy, you make me happy, and that’s what should matter. Because this world is something I’m slipping away from every day, and the only place I feel real, like I’m still whole, it with you. Because I love you.”

I’ve never said those words out loud. I’m not sure I’ve even thought them. But the moment they leave my mouth, I know it’s true. I love him. I hear a catch in the blips of the heart monitor, and the rhythm afterwards never really returns to normal. His face is flushed, and even in my rambling mind, I briefly wonder if he’s ok. If I should call a nurse. Just say what you need to say first, Berry. If he needs a nurse when you’re done, you can run as fast as you’ve ever run before to get one.

“And…I don’t want to pretend I don’t love you anymore,” I fumble on. “I don’t want to hide it. I don’t care if we’re that couple, because at least I’d get to say we’re a couple. I want to say it, scream it even. And even though I’m weak, and tired, and angry, and bitter, I know that this is something I want. I want us. I want it to be real and open and…for as long as it lasts, I want to love you. I don’t want to be afraid and alone, and I know you don’t either, but this is more than companionship for me now. This is so much more. I don’t just want to be under you in bed, I don’t just want you to be my security blanket or creature comfort.”

My throat feels hard, like its becoming stone. I’m trembling in my shoulders and hooves, and I don’t even try to stop it.

“I want the romance, I want the sex, the affection, the kisses on the forehead, the weird laughs at bad jokes, the gross, the disturbing, the tears, and loss. I’m going to lose you, and I want to have you entirely first, even when it hurts. I want that pain. I. Want. It. And if people see it, if they see my love for you, I don’t care. I want to be able to casually tell people that we’re in love. I just don’t care anymore.”

I’m yelling. I didn’t notice it happening, but my voice is rising. I’m sure an orderly has glanced in at me, but as I said, I don’t care anymore. I need to do this. My cheeks are wet with ribbons of moisture, arching all the way down to my chin.

“But,” I say, quieting myself a little. “I don’t know if you feel the same way about me. I think you do, but more than that, I don’t know if you want this to be a real, in-words thing. I don’t know if you want all of that. I just know that I love you so much, and that in a world of chaos, stupid, complication, and death, you’re someone who makes me want to wake up in the morning and face it all. I’d just like…if we faced it together.”

I fall silent. I’ve said enough, too much even, but I’ve said it. The trembling hasn’t stopped, and more drops of sticky wetness silently worm their way down my face. And now I wait. I just stand in the room and wait.

We look at each other, feeling out the silence between us for what feels like an eternity. He’s breathing fairly thickly, and the heart monitor changes rhythm sporadically, probably with different thoughts as they move in and out of his mind. He licks his lips and I see his throat move up and down as he swallows hard. And I wait. Agonizingly, I wait. I wait for seconds, minutes, who knows, before I finally watch him part his lips. He tries once to speak, closes his mouth, then tries again.

“I want that too,” he says quietly. “For whatever time there is, I want all of that too.”

Silence resettles over the small room as we gaze at each other. There’s been a wall here broken, crumbled like old bread. Somehow, I feel like there’s been a distance closed, that parts of us that never touched before are finally touching now. I want to throw myself on him, to weep openly into his chest and with some bizarre magic, draw out whatever is making him sick. That way we can live together for longer, be truly, openly, together. I want to say his name into his neck and collarbone, over and over, until I’ve memorized the taste of it. But I can only stare at him, frozen by his words.

He wants me. Me.

I repeat it in my head over and over, hoping that eventually I’ll start to believe this is real. I’m not dreaming. This pain in my chest right now is real, and it’s the sweetest pain I’ve ever known.

He at last raises his arm and gestures to the vacant chair at his bedside. He cocks that knowing half-grin at me, the one I’ve seen in bed, the one I’ve seen him give his friends. The one I’ve come to love so well.

“You…wanna sit down?”

“Y-yeah,” I mumble.

I sniff back the tears hard, and they travel down my throat in a massive gulp. When I sit, I do so quietly, embracing the stillness of the room. Then, almost without thinking, I reach out my hoof and place it over the back of his hand. He reaches over and holds it there, pressing it down, like he doesn’t want me to let go. I glance up at him, feeling a tremor in my chest I have no real name for.

“So,” he says, voice light-hearted but still wavering. “It sounds like you’ve been thinking over that a while.”

“Yeah, sorta,” I say with a shrug. “I had a little time. It was a bit crowded by the front desk.”

“Ah, well, I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

I smile at him then, and mean it.

“Oh, I don’t feel like it was very long at all.”

——

Author's Note

Thank you for reading.

I have not decided if I will include another part to this. I did not originally intend it, and I feel this wraps up what I wanted to say nicely. However, I do have a particular romance-focused sex scene in mind, as well as further conversation. If you would like to see that as a final part, please let me know.
If you are fine with things ending neatly here as they do, please let me know that as well.

Again, thanks. Please do have a nice day, and remember that you're never alone, even when you feel lonely. Because a lot of people are feeling lonely right then too.

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