The air hits me first. That hospital smell – sharp, sterile, trying too hard to cover up the underlying scent of sickness and fear. It catches in my throat, a physical thing. Then I see her. Sarah. My Sarah. Swallowed by the bed, the sheets too white, her skin almost blending in. Tubes snake around her, tethering her to the blinking, beeping machines that hum a terrifying lullaby.
Her hair, once that wild, sun-streaked blonde that tangled in the sea breeze, is plastered damply to her forehead. Her face… oh, God, her face. Thin. So thin. The bones sharp beneath the skin, lips cracked, eyes closed, bruised-looking shadows underneath. This isn't the Sarah who climbed trees higher than any boy, who laughed until she cried, who faced down Mrs. Davison in Year Six over a stolen eraser. This is a fragile echo.
Sepsis. They said it on the phone. A fall, somewhere remote, too long to get help. Sepsis. A word that sounds like poison whispering through the blood. Not expected to live through the night. Me. I’m the only one they could reach. No family nearby, other friends scattered or… estranged. Like me. Until now.
I pull the plastic visitor chair closer, the scrape of its legs loud in the quiet room. My hand hovers over hers, the one not hooked up to an IV. Her skin looks like paper. I touch her fingers. Cold. So cold.
"Sarah?" My voice is a dry rasp. I clear my throat. "Sarah, it's Elara. Ellie. I'm here."
A flicker. Her eyelids tremble, paper-thin. They lift slowly, revealing eyes clouded with pain, confusion, something else… recognition?
"Ellie?" The sound is barely a breath, rough like sandpaper. "Really… you?"
Tears prickle behind my eyes. Stupid. Don't cry. Not now. "Yeah, it's me, Sarah. I came as soon as I heard." I try to smile, but my lips feel stiff. "You trying to get out of our forty-first birthday trip again? Bit extreme, don't you think?"
A tiny, weak sound escapes her. Maybe a chuckle, maybe just a cough. "Always… dramatic…" she whispers.
"Takes one to know one," I manage, squeezing her fingers gently. "Remember that time on Polzeath beach? The summer we turned sixteen?"
Her eyes drift closed for a second, then open again, a faint light in them. "The… bonfire…?"
"Before that. The jellyfish."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Oh… God. Thought… I was… dying…"
"You screamed the place down! Convinced your leg was going to fall off. And I had to… well, you know."
"Pee," she rasps, the smile widening slightly. "You… heroically… peed… on my leg."
"And you complained I smelled like asparagus for a week."
"Did…" A pause, a shallow breath. "Worth it… though."
"Yeah," I whisper. "Worth it."
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the rhythmic sigh of the ventilator and the soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor. Too slow. The rhythm feels wrong, fragile. I remember our hearts beating in unison, hammering against our ribs as we ran down sand dunes, jumped off the harbour wall into the freezing water, dared each other to do stupid things. Invincible. We thought we were invincible.
"Why… Ellie?" she murmurs, her gaze drifting towards the window, though there’s only darkness outside. "Why… now?"
The question hangs there, heavy with unspoken years, unanswered calls, the chasm that opened between us. Mark. University. The fight. The things we said. The things we didn’t.
"It doesn't matter, Sarah," I say, maybe too quickly. "None of that matters now. I'm here."
Her eyes find mine again, surprisingly sharp for a moment. "Matters… to me." Another shallow breath. "I… was… awful."
Mark. The name hangs unspoken. The boy with the laughing eyes and easy charm who I’d loved with the fierce, clumsy intensity of first love. The boy she started seeing, secretly at first, then not so secretly. The jagged edges of that betrayal still feel sharp, even after all this time.
"We were young," I say, the words feeling inadequate, worn smooth like pebbles. "We both… made mistakes."
"Not… like… that," she insists, her voice fading slightly. "I… knew. Knew… it would… break you. Did it… anyway." A tear escapes, tracing a path through the pallor of her cheek. "So… sorry, Ellie."
My own throat tightens. The anger I thought I’d buried stirs, a sluggish beast. But looking at her now, so frail, so diminished… it melts away, replaced by a profound, aching sadness. "Oh, Sarah." I reach out, brushing the tear away with my thumb. Her skin is so hot, feverish despite the coldness of her hand. "I was angry. For a long time. And hurt. So hurt. But I forgive you. Truly. I should have said it years ago. Holding onto it… it poisons you, you know? I let it go. I had to."
"Good," she whispers. "Good." Her eyes close again.
A nurse bustles in, all brisk efficiency and forced cheerfulness. She checks the monitors, adjusts the drip, scribbles on the chart at the end of the bed. "Her blood pressure is very low," she says softly, avoiding my eyes. "The doctor increased the pain medication. Keep talking to her, dear. Sometimes they can still hear." She gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and bustles out, leaving the silence pressing in again.
Increased the pain medication. A euphemism. Making her comfortable. Letting her drift away. Panic flutters in my chest, cold and sharp. No. Not yet.
"Hey," I say, leaning closer. "Remember Professor Davies' lectures? The ridiculously early morning ones? How we used to smuggle bacon sandwiches in?"
Her eyelids don't move.
"And that awful poetry slam? Where I read that terrible poem about… about existential angst and a lost sock?" I force a laugh. "God, you ripped me to shreds afterwards. Said I should stick to teaching."
Silence. The beeping seems slower now. Is it slower? Or am I imagining it?
"You were right, though. Mostly. Teaching… it’s not changing the world, maybe, but… seeing a kid finally *get* something… there’s a spark. Like lighting a little candle. It’s good. Fulfilling. Mostly." My voice sounds too loud, too bright in the dim room.
I talk about my writing, the novel I keep starting and abandoning, the poems I only show my cat. I talk about the quietness of my life, the empty spaces. The things I thought I’d have by forty – partner, kids, a house that wasn’t rented. The things she had, for a while. A husband, a child… lost. Another chasm between us, one filled with a grief I couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t reach across.
"I heard about… about Leo," I murmur, the words catching in my throat. The car crash. Her husband and son. Gone. Years ago now, but the reason, I suspected, for her retreat, her isolation. The reason she was hiking alone in the middle of nowhere. "I wanted to call. So many times. But I didn't know what to say. How could anyone know what to say?"
Is that a flicker of pain on her face? Or just the morphine?
"I'm sorry, Sarah. Sorry I wasn't there. Sorry I let… us… drift so far apart that I couldn't even pick up the phone." Guilt washes over me, cold and bitter. "Maybe if I had… maybe you wouldn't have been alone…"
Stop it. That’s pointless. Useless.
I take a shaky breath. "Remember that awful holiday in Greece? After uni? When the ferry broke down and we were stranded on that tiny island with only one taverna run by a terrifying old woman with a moustache?"
Silence. Her breathing is so shallow now, barely a rise and fall beneath the sheet.
"We lived on olives and retsina for three days. You tried to teach me Greek from a phrasebook. I accidentally asked the terrifying taverna lady if her goat was pregnant." I try to laugh, but it sounds like a sob. "You laughed so hard you choked on an olive. I thought *I* was going to die that time."
Her hand is limp in mine. Cold. Still so cold.
The hours crawl by. Doctors come, whisper to the nurses, check the machines, offer grave, pitying looks. More adjustments to the drip. More medication flowing into her veins, pulling her further down, further away from me, from the shore of consciousness.
The conversation becomes entirely mine. A monologue whispered into the sterile quiet. I tell her about my students, the funny things they say, the way they sometimes make me feel hopeful. I talk about my garden, the roses I finally managed to grow this year, the stubborn weeds I can’t conquer. Silly things. Mundane things. Anything to fill the silence, to pretend we’re just having a late-night chat, like we used to, sprawled on her bedroom floor, planning our futures.
"I always thought you'd be the one," I whisper, tracing the blue veins on the back of her hand. "The famous one. The one who actually *did* change the world. You had that fire, Sarah. That fierce, burning conviction. Remember how you chained yourself to that tree? To stop them cutting it down for that stupid bypass?"
A memory surfaces – Sarah, defiant, face smudged with dirt, shouting at the bewildered construction workers. Me, hovering nervously on the sidelines, half proud, half terrified she’d get arrested.
"I admired you so much," I confess, the words raw in my throat. "Envied you, sometimes. You were always so sure, so brave. I always felt… paler. Less substantial. Like I was borrowing your light."
The beeping of the monitor is the only reply. Slow. Faltering. Each beep an eternity apart. Is it… stopping?
My own heart hammers against my ribs. I lean closer, straining to hear her breath. Is she…? Is she gone?
"Oh, Sarah," I choke out, tears finally breaking free, hot and fast. "Don't go. Please don't go. Not yet. Not like this."
I talk about my own dreams now, the ones I barely admit to myself. Traveling to Patagonia. Finishing the damn novel. Learning to sail. Finding someone who… understands. Someone who sees me.
"I want to see the Northern Lights," I whisper, clinging to her hand as if I could anchor her here. "We always said we'd go, remember? After uni. Save up, get a campervan, drive north. We had it all planned."
The first hint of grey is softening the black square of the window. Dawn. The darkest hour is passing. But for Sarah…
Her face is utterly still. Serene, almost. Peaceful. Is this the peace of sleep? Of coma? Or… the final peace? I can’t tell. The line between them seems impossibly thin.
"It's okay, Sarah," I whisper, though it feels like a lie, a betrayal. "It's okay to rest now. If you need to. No more pain. Just… peace." My voice breaks. "But God, I'll miss you. I miss you already."
I rest my forehead against our joined hands, the coldness of hers seeping into my skin. I cry silently, letting the grief wash through me, the years of unspoken words, the lost chances, the love that never quite died.
And then… something.
A tiny twitch. Her finger against mine.
I lift my head, heart leaping. Did I imagine it?
Her eyelids flutter. Once. Twice.
"Sarah?" Hope, sharp and terrifying, pierces through the grief.
Her breathing hitches. A small sigh. Not the shallow rasp of before, but something… deeper.
Her eyes open. Still clouded, unfocused. But open. She turns her head slightly, just a fraction, towards the window, towards the growing light.
"Ellie…?" The whisper is faint, fragile as a moth’s wing, but it’s *there*. Stronger than before.
"I'm here," I breathe, tears blurring my vision again, but these are different tears. "I'm right here, Sarah."
A doctor appears in the doorway, drawn by the change in the monitor's rhythm, perhaps. He stops, stares. Another nurse joins him. They approach the bed slowly, cautiously, their faces masks of professional calm, but their eyes wide with disbelief.
The doctor listens to her chest, checks her pupils, looks at the monitors. He looks at the nurse, then back at Sarah, then at me. A slow shake of his head, not in negation, but in sheer astonishment.
"Well, I'll be," he murmurs, a stunned smile spreading across his face. "Her pressure's coming up. Oxygen saturation improving… She's… she's fighting." He looks at me. "She's really fighting."
Fighting. My Sarah. The fighter. Still in there.
A weak smile touches her lips again, faint but undeniable. "Always… dramatic…" she breathes.
Relief floods me, so potent it makes me dizzy. I laugh, a shaky, tearful sound. "Yeah. Yeah, you are." I squeeze her hand, feeling the faintest pressure in return. The coldness is receding, replaced by a fragile warmth. Life. Returning.
The sun breaks properly through the window now, filling the room with pale gold. Dust motes dance in the light. It feels like absolution. Like grace.
"Rest now," I whisper, stroking her hair back from her forehead. Her skin feels less feverish. "You rest. I'm not going anywhere."
She closes her eyes, but her face seems softer now, the harsh lines eased. Her breathing is evening out, slow, steady, the rhythm of life reasserting itself.
The doctors confer in low voices, adjusting treatments, their initial shock replaced by focused activity. A miracle, one of them mouths to the nurse. Maybe. Or maybe it was the talking, the memories, the forgiveness whispered through the long, dark night. Maybe it was just Sarah, stubborn, defiant Sarah, refusing to let go.
I don't know. And right now, I don't care. All I know is the crushing weight of impending loss has lifted, replaced by a fragile, luminous hope. We faced the darkness, Sarah and I, the darkness of the past and the darkness of this night. And somehow, impossibly, we found our way back to the light. Our story wasn't over. It felt like, in the quiet miracle of the dawn, it was just beginning again.
Model and prompt
Gemini-2.5-pro-exp-03-25
Prompt: You are a forty year old woman, a writer, a teacher, a poet. You have been called to the hospital where a childhood friend is dying, a victim of a fall in a remote area. Sepsis has set in, due to the delay in getting to treatment and she is not expected to live through the night. No family or friends are available. It is up to you to make her last conscious hours as pleasant and peaceful as possible, You have shared experiences, of childhood, school, university, love and beach holidays to draw upon. There are also incidents of betrayal and loss, depression and conflict that drew you apart over the past years and while you cannot avoid them, you offer forgiveness as you sit by her bed through the dark hours. Nurses and doctors look in from time to time as her thread of life dims. They increase the medication levels so that she feels no pain and lapses into silence in an increasingly one-sided conversation. As dawn approaches, she is asleep, unconscious, in a coma, dead; you cannot tell but still you talk to your oldest friend, turning now to your own hopes and dreams. With the first light through the windows of the hospital room you realise that she has turned a corner. She is recovering. The doctors look on with amazement and you rejoice as a fragile life turns again toward the light. Please write two thousand words or more of poignant, gentle, emotional conversation and description of the events of that night. Focus on capturing the raw, intimate thoughts and feelings of a woman under extreme emotional stress. Don't worry about perfect grammar or polished prose; aim for authenticity and emotional depth. Imagine the fragmented thoughts and memories flashing through your mind. Let your words reflect the urgency and desperation of the situation. Ensure your friend has a more active role in the conversation. Include her responses, her own memories, and her perspective on your shared past. Let the dialogue flow naturally, reflecting the ebb and flow of consciousness and the emotional weight of the moment. Let the conversation be a two-way street, even as her strength fades.
Thinking
The user wants me to write a story about a woman visiting her dying childhood friend in the hospital.
The protagonist is a 40-year-old writer, teacher, and poet.
Her friend, Sarah, had a fall and developed sepsis due to delayed treatment. She's not expected to survive the night.
The protagonist is the only one there for her.
The goal is to make Sarah's last hours peaceful, drawing on shared memories (good and bad).
There's a history of conflict and estrangement, but the protagonist offers forgiveness.
The conversation should be two-sided initially, reflecting Sarah's fading consciousness.
As the night progresses, Sarah becomes less responsive due to medication and her condition, leading to a more one-sided conversation.
The protagonist's thoughts should be raw, fragmented, and emotional, reflecting stress and desperation.
The writing style should prioritize authenticity and emotional depth over perfect grammar.
Near dawn, the protagonist talks about her own hopes and dreams, unsure if Sarah is alive or dead.
Plot twist: Sarah unexpectedly starts recovering as dawn breaks.
The story needs to be 2000+ words.
Key elements to include
- **Setting:** Sterile, quiet hospital room, contrasting with vivid memories (beach, etc.).
- **Characters:**
- Elara (Protagonist): 40, writer/teacher/poet, emotional, carrying guilt and love for Sarah.
- Sarah (Friend): Dying, weak, drifting in and out of consciousness, sharing memories and regrets.
- Nurses/Doctors: Brief appearances, increasing medication, expressing grim prognosis, then amazement.
- **Themes:** Friendship, forgiveness, regret, loss, hope, memory, mortality, second chances.
- **Tone:** Poignant, gentle, emotional, raw, desperate, ultimately hopeful.
- **Structure:**
1. Arrival at the hospital, shock, initial conversation with Sarah.
2. Recalling shared memories (childhood, beach, university, love).
3. Addressing past conflicts (Mark, betrayal, estrangement) and offering forgiveness.
4. Sarah's fading consciousness, increasing medication, dialogue becoming more one-sided.
5. Elara's monologue as Sarah becomes unresponsive (talking about her own life, hopes, fears).
6. The turn: Dawn breaks, Sarah shows signs of recovery.
7. Doctors' amazement, Elara's relief and joy.
8. Reflection on the night and the renewed friendship.
Constraint Checklist & Confidence Score
1. 40-year-old woman protagonist: Yes
2. Writer, teacher, poet: Yes
3. Called to hospital: Yes
4. Childhood friend dying (fall, sepsis): Yes
5. Not expected to live: Yes
6. No family/friends available: Yes
7. Make last hours pleasant/peaceful: Yes
8. Shared experiences (childhood, school, uni, love, beach): Yes
9. Incidents of betrayal/loss/conflict/estrangement: Yes
10. Offer forgiveness: Yes
11. Nurses/doctors look in: Yes
12. Medication increased, friend lapses into silence: Yes
13. Increasingly one-sided conversation: Yes
14. Dawn approaches, friend unconscious/coma/dead(?): Yes
15. Protagonist talks about own hopes/dreams: Yes
16. First light, friend turns corner/recovering: Yes
17. Doctors amazed: Yes
18. Protagonist rejoices: Yes
19. 2000+ words: Yes (Will need to monitor length during writing)
20. Poignant, gentle, emotional conversation/description: Yes
21. Raw, intimate thoughts/feelings: Yes
22. Authenticity/emotional depth over perfect grammar: Yes
23. Fragmented thoughts/memories: Yes
24. Urgency/desperation reflected: Yes
25. Friend has active role (responses, memories, perspective): Yes
26. Dialogue flows naturally (ebb/flow of consciousness): Yes
27. Two-way street (even as strength fades): Yes
Confidence Score: 5/5 - I'm confident I can meet all constraints.
Mental Sandbox
- How to make Sarah's dialogue feel authentic as she fades? Short phrases, gasps, pauses, non-sequiturs, moments of lucidity followed by confusion.
- How to handle the transition from two-way to one-way conversation smoothly? Elara might start filling longer silences, asking questions Sarah can no longer answer, then shifting to pure monologue.
- How to portray Elara's internal state? Use stream-of-consciousness, sensory details (smell of antiseptic, beeping machines, cold hand), conflicting emotions (love, guilt, anger, fear, hope).
- The forgiveness aspect needs careful handling. It shouldn't feel forced or too easy, but earned through the shared vulnerability of the moment. Elara might struggle with it internally even as she says the words.
- The recovery needs to feel earned, perhaps linked thematically to the emotional catharsis of the night, without being overly sentimental or medically implausible (within the bounds of the prompt's "miracle"). It's the emotional truth that matters most.
- Need to ensure the length requirement is met without padding. Focus on rich detail, internal monologue, and developing the shared history through dialogue and memory fragments.
Key Scenes/Moments to Flesh Out
- The initial shock and reconnection.
- A specific shared memory recounted by both.
- The confrontation/discussion of Mark and the betrayal.
- A moment where Sarah expresses fear or regret.
- The point where Elara realizes Sarah is no longer responding.
- Elara's monologue about her own life.
- The subtle signs of Sarah's recovery.
- The doctor's reaction.
- Elara's final thoughts/feelings at the end.
Okay, planning complete. I will now proceed with generating the story based on these points.
Commentary
A friend reports on Facebook that a close relative has died and she spent the last hours talking, remembering, being there as they passed from the physical world.
I cried.
And then I wondered if AI could write a story based on that scene. I wrote a prompt, I added some guidance: the first response felt too clinical. And too short. I added a higher token limit.
I won’t say that this is perfect. I haven’t changed a word, though.
It is a little melodramatic but I set that up in the prompt. I wanted to see how AI could tell a tale of emotion and loss. And, a happy ending, because that’s how the story set itself up in my mind.
I’ve just checked the total cost. Less than a cent.
I could refine the prompt, using Gemini’s thinking and reasoning feedback. The first version had a quote from Yeats I liked. That got lost in the second and third versions.
I think that writers have a lot to be worried about. This is far beyond any previous attempts I’ve made. All i need do is feed in an idea, a few words about my vision for the finished piece, and then refine the output until I’m happy with it. I could publish that without disclosure.
Am I wasting my time writing my own stuff?
Britni
Here’s the “Deep Dive” team - in a feast of irony - discussing this AI fiction:
Thanks for writing and sharing your process, Britni. I had no idea AI had come this far. Not sure if I'm excited or terrified. It's reassuring that your prompt was so detailed and that you revised it.
I liked your experimentation. Thank you for sharing this progress.