The report arrived that morning  neat, sealed, and cruel.

My name printed across it in black ink, followed by words that froze my heart: “Terminal  estimated survival, seven days.”

Exactly seven days.

The same day we were supposed to celebrate our **third wedding anniversary**.

I stared at the paper, at the letters that now dictated my fate, and all I could think of was him "Ethan". My husband. The man who once swore that forever meant something.

That morning, I sat across from him at the dining table, the silence between us louder than the ticking clock.

 He scrolled through his phone, answering messages that I already knew weren’t about work.

Her name "Sophie". His secretary.
I had seen the messages, the late-night calls, the way his voice softened when he said her name. 

But every time I confronted him, he smiled that calm, guilty smile.
“She’s just my secretary,” he’d say. “You’re imagining things.”

Today, I wanted to tell him about "the report". About how my time was running out.
But I couldn’t.
Not yet.

I wanted to see if he would remember.
Our anniversary. Our promise. The vows he said beneath the rain three years ago when we thought love could survive anything.

My fingers tapped the table, a rhythm of impatience and pain. 

He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice the tears I was hiding behind my coffee cup.

Maybe love dies before people do.
Maybe that’s what my report was truly trying to tell me.

Soft light spilled through the open window, carrying the scent of salt and sea. Lucas still slept beside me, his breathing steady calm, like the ocean itself.


He looked peaceful, unguarded, the way people do when they've carried someone else's pain for too long. And I realized… he had always watched over me, even from afar.


And mine came rushing back the second I remembered Ethan.


The life I was still pretending to hold together.


Quietly, I slid out of bed, careful not to wake Lucas. I gathered my things  my dress, my sandals, the folded report still tucked inside my bag  and paused at the doorway.


"Lucas," I whispered, almost hoping he wouldn't hear.


But his eyes opened anyway, soft and tired.


"I'm just… going home," I said. "He'll notice if I'm gone."


The question hit harder than I wanted it to.


"I don't know," I whispered. "But I have to give him the chance to."


He nodded, sitting up. "Elara… whatever happens, don't regret feeling alive. Even if it was just for a night."


I turned away before the tears could fall. "Goodbye, Lucas."


The drive back felt endless. The city looked colder in the morning light, its rhythm too fast for someone who counted days instead of years.


When I reached the house, the front door was still locked from the inside. No sign of him. The bed was exactly as I'd left it untouched, as though no one had noticed I'd been gone all night.


The ache inside me grew until it became something else a kind of quiet acceptance. Maybe I'd expected too much from a man who'd already left me in all the ways that mattered.


I sat on the edge of the bed, opened the report again, and ran my fingers across the date.


Six days to decide whether I wanted to spend what was left waiting for him…


The phone buzzed. A message from Ethan.


> "Going away for the weekend. Business retreat. Don't wait up."


I stared at the words, then deleted the message without replying.


And for the first time, I didn't feel anger just a strange kind of freedom.


I walked to the mirror, studying my reflection. My eyes looked clearer, sharper. The woman looking back at me wasn't the same one who'd been waiting at the breakfast table yesterday.


Chapter 4 - Six days to live