Brielle has been sleeping almost all day lately — not from pain, but from exhaustion.
Her tiny body is tired, her eyes barely open for more than a few seconds.
And in those rare moments when she does, her family rushes to whisper, “I love you. Don’t ever forget.”

Those words have become their prayer — their way of holding onto hope when everything else feels fragile.

Just days ago, she asked to visit the library.
Wrapped in blankets, she was wheeled through the aisles, reaching for her favorite Barbie books with a faint smile.
For that brief moment, it felt like the world had paused — just a little girl and her dreams.

Now, her parents sit by her bedside, counting every breath, every heartbeat, every sign she’s still fighting.
Because even when life feels impossibly heavy, Brielle’s spirit refuses to fade.
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Can you imagine living every day with the fear that your child might not wake up again?

That each time they close their eyes, you wonder — is this the last time I’ll see them look back at me, the last time I’ll hear their voice, the last time I’ll whisper “I love you” and know they can still hear it?

That fear becomes a constant companion.
It sits quietly beside you, it follows you from room to room, and it steals your breath in the quiet hours of the night.

It’s the kind of fear that no parent should ever have to carry.
And yet, here we are — living it, breathing it, surviving it one fragile heartbeat at a time.

Brielle has been sleeping almost nonstop these past two days.
Not because she’s in pain — thankfully, she’s not — but because her little body is tired, so impossibly tired.

She can barely keep her eyes open for more than a minute and a half.

Sometimes she tries, just for us, fluttering her lashes, opening those beautiful eyes long enough to see our faces and let out the faintest hint of a smile.

And in that split second, before exhaustion pulls her back under, we rush to say it.
“I love you. Don’t ever forget.”

Those four words have become our lifeline.
They fill the silence, they hold the fear at bay, they remind us that love — even in moments like this — is stronger than everything else.

We whisper them again and again, like a prayer, like a promise, like a plea.
Because love is the only thing we have left to give her that can’t be taken away.

Just a few days ago, Brielle told us she wanted to go to the library.
She said it with that same spark in her eyes, the one that used to light up the whole room when she talked about her favorite things.

So, of course, we went.

We packed her things, bundled her in blankets, and wheeled her through those aisles she loves so much.
She reached for the Barbie books — her favorite — and for a moment, everything felt normal again.

Just a little girl and her books.
Just laughter, and love, and a memory we’ll never let fade.

I remember watching her, her tiny fingers brushing over the covers, her smile so faint but so real.

And I thought to myself, God, I love this girl more than words can ever say.

More than time, more than fear, more than life itself.
Every piece of her — her courage, her curiosity, her quiet strength — has changed me in ways I’ll never fully understand.

These days, time feels like sand slipping through our fingers.
Each moment feels heavier, more precious.
Every breath she takes is a gift I thank heaven for.

We sit beside her bed, hands intertwined, watching her chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each soft inhale.

Sometimes the room is silent except for the faint hum of machines and the soft rhythm of her breathing.

It’s in those moments that I realize how fragile everything really is — how love can make you both the strongest and weakest person in the world all at once.

There’s no manual for this kind of pain.
No way to prepare for the slow unraveling of what once was normal life.

We live minute to minute now, trying to find beauty in small things — in the warmth of her hand, in the softness of her voice when she manages to whisper something back, in the tiny movements that tell us she’s still here, still fighting.

We take turns holding her, kissing her forehead, smoothing her hair.
We tell her stories about the things we’ll do together someday, even if we know deep down that those days may never come.

We talk about her favorite colors, her favorite songs, her dream to be a teacher one day.
And even as her eyes grow heavy, even as her body weakens, she listens.

She always listens.
Because Brielle has the kind of soul that never stops loving — even when the world gives her every reason to.

It’s strange how grief and gratitude can live in the same heart.How you can be breaking and thankful all at once.

Thankful for another sunrise, another breath, another chance to say “I love you.”

And yet, grieving all the moments you already know you won’t get to have — birthdays, first dances, graduations, all the small and beautiful pieces of a future that now feels out of reach.

But here’s the thing about Brielle — she’s never been defined by her illness.
Even now, even like this, she radiates a kind of light that illness can’t touch.
She’s kind, funny, endlessly curious.

She loves deeply and lives fully, even from her bed, even through her exhaustion.
Every nurse, every doctor, every visitor walks away changed by her — a little lighter, a little braver, a little more aware of how precious it all is.

Sometimes people ask us how we do it — how we keep showing up, how we keep smiling through the pain.
The truth is, we don’t know.
We just do.

Because when you love someone this much, you learn to live between heartbreak and hope.
You learn to celebrate the smallest victories — a smile, a blink, a squeeze of her hand.

You learn that love doesn’t need a cure to matter.
It just needs presence.
It just needs now.

Tonight, as she sleeps again, I sit beside her and listen to the soft rhythm of her breathing.
The house is quiet, but my heart is loud — full of memories, full of love, full of everything I wish I could protect her from.

I trace her little hand with my finger and whisper the words I always do:
“You are my heart, my world, my miracle.”

Tomorrow might bring the same fears.
It might bring tears, or exhaustion, or another long stretch of silence.
But tonight — right now — she’s here.
And that’s enough.

It’s enough to remind me that love can exist even in the middle of heartbreak.
That joy can live inside sorrow.
That light can find its way through even the darkest night.

And if you’re reading this, please — hold your loved ones close.
Say “I love you” every chance you get.
Don’t wait for the perfect moment, because sometimes all you have is now.
Cherish it.
Protect it.
Live inside it.