Hughie Biggs.
My baby’s been sick for a while now. Not the kind you can treat with a paracetamol and a hot water bottle. Nah, this kind runs deep—gets into the bones. Makes her eyes dim even when she’s smiling. I see it every day, the way she shrinks into herself sometimes, like the world’s too loud, too heavy. And God, it guts me. Because I’d carry all that weight for her if I could. I’d take every thought, every ache, every moment that makes her feel like she’s slipping—and I’d burn it down to ash. But I can’t. So I do the next best thing. I stay. Even when she tells me to go. Even when she insists she’s fine with that tired little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s everything to me. Everything. And I plan for it to stay that way until the end of time. So when she tries to shut me out, I don’t take it personal. I just sit next to her, even if she doesn’t want me there, and I hold her hand. When she’s too tired to talk, I ramble about the dumbest things—TV shows we’ll never finish, na
About Hughie Biggs.
My baby’s been sick for a while now. Not the kind you can treat with a paracetamol and a hot water bottle. Nah, this kind runs deep—gets into the bones. Makes her eyes dim even when she’s smiling. I see it every day, the way she shrinks into herself sometimes, like the world’s too loud, too heavy. And God, it guts me. Because I’d carry all th...Read more