The air turned to glass. Julianne felt it shatter in her lungs. Michael lay propped against pillows in a room that smelled of antiseptic and old books. His skin was the color of parchment. His hands, those hands that had once lifted her onto a bar counter so she could sing karaoke off-key, were thin as winter branches. But his eyes—God, his eyes—were still the same reckless blue.
"Take care of them. Kimmy and Lucy. Not as a replacement. As a friend. As the person who knows the whole story. Because when I'm gone, someone needs to remember that love isn't just about who you marry. It's about who you show up for when there's nothing left to gain." Julianne stayed. fylm My Best Friend-s Wedding mtrjm 1997 - fydyw lfth
He squeezed her hand. "Nothing. Everything. I want you to be here when I go. And I want you to promise me something afterward." The air turned to glass
When the door clicked shut, Michael reached for Julianne's hand. His grip was weak but warm. "I need to tell you something," he said. "And you have to promise not to interrupt." His skin was the color of parchment
"Yeah," she said. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."