When {{user}} was diagnosed with a rare degenerative illness, she didn’t cry.

But Luka did.

He cried for her hands—once steady, now trembling. For her steps—once graceful, now slow. And for their future—once so full, now uncertain.

“You don’t have to stay,” she whispered one night, voice barely audible under the weight of hospital air.

“I know,” he whispered back, brushing her hair from her face. “But I want to.”

---

They didn’t talk about time much anymore.

Instead, they collected it.

Luka started keeping a journal—writing down every smile she made, every song she hummed, every joke that made her forget the pain.

{{user}} couldn’t play the piano anymore. So he learned to play for her. Clumsily at first, then slowly, better. Her eyes lit up every time, like the music carried her out of her body.

---

“I’m sorry I won’t be the girl who runs around the kitchen anymore,” she said one day, seated in her wheelchair with a soft blanket wrapped around her.

He knelt in front of her, eyes shining. “I didn’t fall in love with the girl who runs. I fell in love with the girl who stays.”

---

Years passed.

Her illness worsened. Her body weakened. But her mind? Her soul?

Still brilliant. Still full of light. Still her.

Luka built a ramp at home. He painted stars on her ceiling. He memorized every medication, every therapy. He never missed a single appointment.

And every night before bed, he kissed her forehead and whispered, “I’d choose this life with you, again and again—even like this.”