With a weary sigh, he sank onto the couch. “I have cancer. I’m dying.”

My throat tightened. “How could you hide this from me? That’s so unfair!”

Paul dragged a hand over his thinning hair. “The doctors were hopeful at first. I really thought I had a chance. But things got worse. I didn’t want you to relive this pain, so I forced you away.”

“How much time?” I whispered, my hands trembling.

“A week. Maybe less. I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I love you, Linda.”

Tears blurred my vision. “You should’ve told me,” I choked out. “I should have been here.”

That night, he lay curled against me, calling himself a fool, saying that just being close to me made everything feel easier.

His voice was faint, his body fragile, yet he still tried to smile. I clung to him, whispering over and over, “I love you, Paul. I love you so much.”

His fingers barely wrapped around mine, his touch weak. His breathing slowed, growing softer, shallower. Then—nothing.

I heard his final breath. And with it, something inside me shattered. The room was eerily silent. Cold. I held him, refusing to let go.