And so, when the moment came, Julian took a small soda-can pull tab, which he had saved for the purpose from a drink on his tray, and he slipped it gently onto my finger, and it was, absurdly and perfectly, the most meaningful ring I have ever worn.

For the next seven days, I never left his side.

I took a leave from everything else in my life, and I stayed, and I held his hand through every difficult breath, through the long nights and the harder days, as his failing heart slowed and struggled and at last, quietly, stopped.

And then he was gone, and I sat alone in his empty hospital room, holding the hand that had gone still, and I was stunned, genuinely stunned, by how much silence a person I had known for such a short time could leave behind.

Seven days.