It’s only time I think as I watch the clock tick over to midnight. Another day about to begin. Ben stirs and I reach out and run my fingers down his face before wrapping my arms around him. I let myself believe he knows I am here. He mumbles incoherently but I catch my name amongst his words and tighten my grip around him.

Three days have passed without me leaving his room, without food, without sleep unless you count the few snatched hours when I cannot stop myself from nodding off but always waking with a start at the slightest movement from Ben.

The doctors tell me he will be fine, once the new meds kick in. I believe them because the alternative is terrifying. No matter how many times we have been through this over the years until his eyes open I can’t let myself relax.

I sit up, taking his hand in mine and lean back. The only sound to be heard, apart from Ben’s rhythmical breathing is the steady beep of the machines that surround him. I have a love/hate relationship with that sound. Part of me needs to hear it because it means Ben is still with me, the other part hates it because it gets into my head and won’t leave; reminding me of all the other times we have spent here over the years.

Ben accepts that ending up in hospital when his meds decide to stop doing their job or a cold turns into the flu, as a way of life, like swallowing pills every morning, eating well and exercising regularly. I try to but sometimes it just gets too damn much and I just hide away and scream at the injustice of it all.

Ben knows how I feel; we talk about it sometimes in the dead of night when I can’t sleep. He takes me into his arms, rocking me gently and telling me that he’s not going anywhere and will be around for a long time. I nod in agreement, forcing a smile on my face, but deep down I know that a future will never be guaranteed. I knew that from the moment I met him, he never lied to me about it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with.