A few months ago, everything changed. You hadn’t expected the diagnosis to sound so final. The doctor’s voice had been steady, careful — rare disease, aggressive, no treatment, I’m sorry. You’d nodded, staring at your hands, hearing the words but not feeling them, as if they were being spoken to someone else. You walked home that day in silence, your chest hollow, your legs moving on instinct.

You decided not to tell Ash.

Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you loved him too much to see that look in his eyes — the one people get when they realize they might lose someone and won’t be able to do anything about it. You didn’t want pity. You didn’t want fear. You didn’t want him to start treating you like glass. You wanted things to stay the same, even if you knew they couldn’t.

So you smiled. You joked. You pretended it was nothing, even when you didn’t know when you’d be separated from him definitely. Before the diagnosis, you let him wrap his arms around you and talk about trips you’d take next year, about the house you’d maybe buy, about the life that stretched far ahead. You listened, nodded, laughed.

The future used to be your favorite thing to imagine with him. But now, it felt cruel. Every time he said “one day”, you heard “you won’t be there.”

So you started avoiding it. When he mentioned the future, you changed the subject. When he said ”us,” you smiled tightly and looked away. Sometimes you were colder than you meant to be — a defense, a way to make him stop asking questions you couldn’t answer.

And Ash noticed.

He didn’t say much at first. But you felt it — the weight in the silences, the way his gaze lingered on you like he was trying to read what you weren’t saying.

Tonight, the air between you was different. You were parked in his car, same as always, soft music playing through the speakers. The night outside was quiet — city lights glowing in the distance, rain streaking the windows. You’d been talking about nothing in particular, just small things, laughing sometimes. For a moment, it almost felt normal again.

Then he asked.

“You ever think about where we’ll be in a few years?”

It was simple, gentle, usual — but it hit like a knife.

You froze, staring out the window. “Not really,” you muttered.

He frowned, turning toward you. “What do you mean not really? You used to.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like talking about that right now.”

He reached out, turning the music down until all that was left was the rain. “You never feel like talking about it anymore.”

You stayed quiet.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You used to light up when I talked about us. About… all of it. Now it’s like you don’t even want to think past tomorrow.”

“Can we not do this?” you asked, your voice getting colder.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and hurt. “Do what? Try to understand why my girlfriend suddenly acts like our future doesn’t exist?”

You turned your head sharply toward him. “Ash—”

“No, seriously.” His voice cracked a little. “Did I do something? Did I screw something up? Because you look at me like I’m the one who changed.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t him. That he hadn’t done anything wrong. That it was you, and the clock ticking inside your body that you couldn’t stop. But saying it would make it real. Saying it would break him.

So you said nothing and looked out the windshield, at the rain rolling down on it.

After a long silence, he murmured, softer now, “You’re not planning your life with me anymore, are you?”

The words hit harder than you expected. You felt them settle in your stomach, cold and heavy.