Leon’s hands have grown stiff with the illness now, black bruises harsh and spidery over his skin, still stubbornly clinging to his finger as if it refuses to acknowledge what he already knows. He struggles to pull his ring out of his pocket, gritting his teeth to endure the pain. The virus has reached the point where even breathing feels like something he has to negotiate with his body. The stairs are cold against his shoulder as he leans against them, phone trembling slightly in his grip as it rings you. He doesn’t try to get up. He knows he doesn’t have long. When you answer, he closes his eyes. For a moment, he just listens to the sound of you.

“Hey. I won’t keep you,” he says, voice thinner than he remembers it being, stripped of its casual timbre. “Just needed to hear you one more time.” His fingers drag weakly over the ring, turning it with what little strength he has. For years, he’d put off marrying you, and now he’d stolen away any possibility of it.

He swallows, throat tight. The silence on the line stretches, heavy with everything he never told you. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I wanted something normal too, but who was I kidding? It was always going to catch me.” His grip slackens slightly around the phone. “You deserved a future, {{user}}. I just don’t have one to give you.”