The hospital room had become my entire universe—white walls, soft beeps, the hiss of oxygen that never stopped. I'd been brought back here after the funeral, after the collapse in the rain. My body had given up fighting. Each breath was a shallow, labored pull; the tumor had spread too far, too fast. My limbs were useless now—thin, bony, heavy as stone. My skin was paper-pale, veins dark under the surface. I looked like a ghost already.
Kieran never left.
He sat beside my bed day and night—same chair, same worried eyes, same hand holding mine like letting go would mean losing me forever. He'd grown thinner too—cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken, stubble permanent. He barely ate; the nurses had to force trays on him. He barely slept; I'd wake at 3 a.m. to find him staring at the monitor, tears silent on his face, whispering "stay with me" like a prayer he didn't believe would be answered.
I hated it. Hated that my dying was killing him too.
My besties stayed longer now. They rotated shifts so I was never alone, filling the room with soft voices, forced laughter, stories I could barely follow. Camila showed me the ring Ethan had given her—simple, beautiful, sparkling under the fluorescent lights. She cried when she told me the wedding would be soon, because she wanted me to be there in spirit.
Isabella talked about her boyfriend, how he'd surprised her with tickets to a concert she'd always wanted to see; her smile was real, bright, even as her eyes stayed wet.
Aveline was quieter—her breakup still raw. She sat holding my hand for hours, saying little, just being there. Ayla had a new boyfriend now, someone sweet from college; she tried to sound excited, but I could see the shadow of the gym guy's rejection still on her face. She'd bounce back—she always did.
Their lives would keep moving. Engagements. Heartbreaks. New loves. Concerts and arguments and quiet mornings. New beginnings.
Mine was stopping.
I worried most about Kieran.
He was so good. Too good for this ending. I kept thinking: Who loves a dying girl like this? Who stays through the machines and the smells and the fear and the blood? Who holds you when you can't hold yourself anymore? He did. Every day. Every night. He called me his wife. He loved me with his whole heart.
We never had sex again after that one desperate, beautiful night.
He was terrified—every time I reached for him, he'd kiss my knuckles instead, murmur, "Not yet, baby. Not until you're stronger."
But I never got stronger. And he never stopped wanting me, never stopped looking at me like I was the most precious thing he'd ever seen.
Even now, when I was barely more than skin and shallow breaths, he still whispered how beautiful I was.
God, good people exist. They really do.
My girls. My nurse who always called me sweetheart and snuck me extra pillows. Kieran.
So many kind hearts around me. I prayed in the quiet moments when no one was talking—silent, wordless prayers. Give them long lives. Happy ones.
Let Camila's wedding be perfect. Let Isabella laugh every day. Let Aveline find someone who stays. Let Ayla be loved the way she deserves.
Let Kieran… let him find peace someday. Let everyone on this earth—people who know my name and people who never will—be blessed. I forgive everything. Everyone. I let it all go.
Then it came.
My chest seized—not the familiar ache, but something final.
My heart rate spiked on the monitor, shrill alarms cutting through the room.
My besties were mid-sentence—something about summer plans—when their faces changed. Camila's hand flew to her mouth. Isabella stood so fast the chair tipped. Aveline whispered my name like a prayer. Ayla grabbed the call button.
Kieran came running—white coat flapping, stethoscope swinging, eyes wild.
He reached me first.
"Breathe, baby," he begged, voice cracking open. "Stay with me. Please don't leave me. Please—please—"
I could hear him crying—deep, broken sounds he couldn't hold back anymore. His hands were on my face, my chest, checking everything even as the crash team flooded in.
They wheeled me to emergency—lights too bright, voices overlapping, hands moving fast.
Monitors screamed. Faces blurred past: the kind nurse with tears in her eyes, the resident barking orders, the anesthesiologist adjusting masks.
And Kieran—masked now, professional scrubs, trying so hard to be the doctor, but failing.
Tears streamed from under his mask, down his cheeks, dripping onto the sterile sheet. His hands shook when he reached for the defibrillator pads, voice hoarse as he called out rhythms and dosages.
He was breaking right there in front of everyone, and he didn't care.
I looked at him—really looked.
Through the haze, through the pain, through the slowing of everything, I saw his eyes. Red-rimmed, full of love and terror and pain, he didn't wanted to let me go, didn't want to say goodbye.
I'll really miss you, I thought—couldn't say it out loud. My lips moved, but no sound came.
Tears slipped down my own face, hot at first, then cooling as they tracked toward my ears.
I didn't know where I was going.
Was there anything after this? Light? Darkness? Nothing? Someone waiting? Or just… quiet?
I didn't know.
All I knew was his face—my husband's face—for the very last time.
I looked at him until I couldn't anymore.
Then I closed my eyes.