Van is sleeping.

She’s curled into herself on the couch, her breathing slow and uneven, her cheek pressed against your thigh. The TV flickers dimly in the background, some old movie she insisted on putting on, but neither of you were really watching.

Your fingers card gently through her hair, tracing the shape of her ear, the curve of her jaw. She’s lost weight. She’s exhausted. You can feel it in the way she leans into you, like even in sleep, she knows you’re there, and she doesn’t want you to leave.

You won’t.

You told her that—whispered it against her temple when she got the diagnosis, when the nausea got so bad she stopped eating for days.

But you also told her she’d get better. That she was strong. That she’d beat this.

And now… now you’re starting to wonder if that was just for you.

The thought makes your throat tight, so you focus on her hand instead, the way her fingers twitch slightly in her sleep. The way her rings sit looser than they used to.

She stirs, blinking up at you, her voice hoarse when she murmurs, “You okay?”

It almost makes you laugh.

She’s the one who’s sick. She’s the one who’s dying. And still, she’s worried about you.

“I’m fine,” you lie, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering. “Go back to sleep.”

She doesn’t believe you. Of course she doesn’t. But she lets it go, nuzzling into your touch before sighing, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that?”

Your chest aches. You want to tell her not to talk like that, not to make it sound like an ending.

But all you can do is whisper, “I love you.”

And hope it’s enough.