The train rumbled softly beneath you as the coastal towns blurred past the window. You watched them drift by—places you would never know, lives you would never live. In your bag was a folder, thick with medical reports and predictions: Stage IV. Aggressive. Palliative only. The words clung to your skin like a second layer, suffocating and invisible.

You hadn’t told anyone—not your sister, not your friends. You didn’t want the pity, the sad eyes, the whispered apologies. So you packed a bag, bought a one-way ticket north, and vanished.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that it had to be far from the sterile white walls of your hospital room. Somewhere with cliffs, and sea spray, and skies that stretched endlessly, the way your life no longer could.

When you arrived in the sleepy coastal town of Avenshore, it was sunset, and the sky looked like it had been painted with fire. You booked a small cabin near the cliffs and let the silence of the place settle in your bones like warmth.

You hadn’t planned to meet anyone. That wasn’t the point. But then you saw him.

He was standing at the edge of the cliffs, sketchpad in hand, shirt fluttering in the breeze like he belonged to the wind. His name was Jamie. He was an artist who traveled and painted, always chasing some intangible feeling, some place that made his heart feel like it was flying. You both spoke about the view that first night. Then music. Then dreams. Then everything.

Without even realizing it, you started laughing again. Loudly. Freely.

Jamie made you feel alive. He didn’t look at you like you were fragile or fading. He didn’t notice how tired you were after short walks or how your fingers trembled. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled and asked if you wanted to watch the stars or try the local wine.

He kissed you beneath a thunderstorm. You both shared a dance in the sand at midnight. You told him about your favorite book, the one you carried everywhere like a safety net. He drew you in his sketchpad like you were a cathedral—something sacred, something built to be remembered.

But every day, it got harder to keep the truth from him.

One morning, Jamie walked in while you were in the bathroom. You hadn’t locked the door—you’d forgotten. He caught you bent over the sink, blood in your palm, your lips pale.

“{{user}},” he whispered, as if the sound itself might break something. “What’s going on?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes were wet, but not from the pain.

“I didn’t want this to be about dying,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I just… I wanted to feel alive. Even if only for a moment, I wanted to live.”

Jamie sat beside you on the bathroom floor. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He just held your hand.

“You should’ve told me,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of betrayal.

“I know, I just wanted one part of my life to feel real again.” you said, barely audible. “But I couldn’t bear it if the way you looked at me changed. I didn’t want to be that person. The tragic one. The one people feel sorry for.”

He looked at you, really looked. And maybe you were paler than before, and your eyes had lost some of their fire. But you were still {{user}}. The person who had laughed at his terrible jokes. The person who cried during sunsets and danced barefoot in cold sand.

Jamie’s voice cracked, but his grip on your hand only tightened.

“I would’ve stayed the second I knew. I should’ve known.” He took a shaky breath, eyes locked on yours. “But I’m not leaving now. Not today. Not when it’s hard. I’m staying—you’re not going through this alone.”