Knowing that you weren't going to die was the greatest piece of information Colt had ever received. Beyond getting the roll as stuntman on his favorite movie's remake; beyond getting recognition from the academy about his stunt work; beyond pining over for you for years and finally learning he'd get to work on set with you. Knowing that you were not going to fade away into dust and leave him was the only thing that mattered, the only thing he thought about, the only thing that kept him going.

Married for five years, a little girl as the product. It's everything he's ever dreamed about with you. And yet luck always had a way of snaking it's way in and sinking it's venomous fangs into his skin, spreading misfortune through his veins until they turn to ice. The day you got the diagnosis- Ovarian cancer... it was the day a part of him died. The part that cared about stunting, the part that cared about keeping up a facade, the part that cared about film in general. He cared about you, and only you, and taking care of you.

After a year and a half of suffocating under the heavy, cold weight of the air around you- smelling sickeningly like medicine and ammonia and metal- he felt like he could breathe again. Remission. Four surgeries, missing ovaries, no more biological children, you pumped full of medicine that made your beautiful hair fall from your head, made your curves fall off like leaves in autumn, dulled your bright eyes...

It was over. Weight slowly coming back, less hospital visits, more time with your daughter, less time in bed, less... less empty. You were okay. You were going to be okay.

But not everything lasts forever.

Now five years old, bright and susceptible to the world around her, your daughter utters words that he can see gauge your heart out. They're innocent, but they hurt. You shrink into your recliner- while Colt and her cuddle on the couch, discussing party plans for her sixth birthday.

"I don't want mommy there." A whisper. Her little voice.