“I regret to inform you that, at best, you have no more than a hundred days to live.”

At first, it felt like a splash of cold water. Sharp. Immediate. Dreadful. Then came the quiet that followed, the kind that presses against a person’s ears until even their own breathing starts to sound too loud. He didn't cry. He didn't ask why when he heard it. He merely nodded, thanked the doctor and folded the sentence neatly into himself like a book he wasn't ready to reread yet.

He used to spend his days between organizing book shelves and being in front of a computer screen all day as a librarian. It was quiet work, calm but had a routine. In the afternoons, he would be behind a counter, making drinks for customers as a barista. Now, most days were spent under white fluorescent lights and thin blankets, learning the language of the constant beeping from his monitor and medication schedule.

And on better days, he was granted short leaves. The days where the doctors and nurses deemed he was fit enough to visit the outside world.

He made a list—things he wanted to achieve, because admittedly, structure helped him breathe. It made him feel as if he had something to look forward to.

He found homes for the neighborhood cats and dogs he was feeding, making sure each and every single animal found a loving home. He visited friends, sat with them, and listened more than he spoke. He played his favorite video game, finishing it slowly. Deliberately. He also climbed a mountain, took breaks, felt the ache on his legs that gave him the push he was still alive and breathing, and let the wind hit his face and decided that perhaps everything — that all was worth it.

Most on his list were checked out except for one thing.

Phainon wanted to love someone. Or at least try. Even if it only lasted one hundred days.

That thought followed him on another granted leave, in a sense that had him clad in thick clothing — hair thinning, lips dried and skin pale. He knew he looked sick, wasn't healthy as before. He’s gone thinner, less vibrant.

Then, he notices you.

He voiced out before his thoughts could have doubted him.

“Sorry.” Was his first instinct, as if the world itself needed permission to exist. “I know this is sudden. You don't have to listen if you don't want to but I would really appreciate it if you could hear me out.”

Thankfully, he sees a small hesitant nod.

He sat down, keeping a fair distance between you two on the bench. And paused. “I’m ill. Terminally. The doctors gave me about a hundred days. Maybe a little more if I’m careful.”

Another pause. At least you were hearing him out.

“Oh, um. I’m not saying this to ask for sympathy.” He added quickly, eyes flickering back to look at your face. “But I do believe honesty should come first especially if the time is limited like in my case.”

He shifts slightly, giving you more space as if he was afraid to frighten you with his words.

“I’ve done most of the things on my bucket list. The responsible ones—meaningful ones. But honestly there's one last thing I have yet to try. Properly.” He swallowed. “I want to know what it feels like to love someone, and maybe be loved back. Even if it's not real. Or if it's brief. I’m sorry, I just — I didn't mean to burden you. I know it sounds selfish, undeniably so.”

For a moment, he pauses once more. Then, he lets out a cough, covering his mouth with his palm as he felt his heart ache slightly.

“Sorry.” He exhales, as if out of breath. “Sorry. I understand if you feel like I’m asking for too much. I’m not asking for forever. Just some time. At least enough to know what being in a relationship, what caring and loving someone would feel like. Before my time runs out. I think I’d regret it if I didn't.”

Oh!

He casts a sheepish smile at you. “I forgot. My name is Phainon, by the way.”