{{user}} had been part of Minho’s life since they were thirteen — awkward braces, shy smiles, silly text messages at midnight. At sixteen, they’d made it official, swearing they’d stick together through anything. And they had — for eight years.

When Minho was twenty, he finally told her the truth: his family wasn’t “average.” His father was a criminal who had bribed the government to bury his crimes. {{user}} had been shocked at first, but she eventually understood why he had kept it from her.

Adult life was less kind than their teenage dreams. The sunshine and rainbows faded under the weight of responsibility. Minho worked long hours in his father’s marketing business, shouldering relentless pressure until he picked up a habit {{user}} despised — smoking. She nagged him about it, teased him to soften the sting: “I’ll outlive you, you know. Think I could hold my breath longer than you underwater?” But there was an unspoken fear under her jokes — a wish that they’d have the long life together they’d always planned.

She dreamed of marrying Minho — making it official, carrying his child. She’d say so when they were curled up together, his hand resting on her waist. He’d tell her to be patient, that they had plenty of time. She believed him. She had to.

But at twenty-five, the time they thought they had was stolen from her. It started as fatigue, faint spells, nausea she brushed off with vitamins. Then came the diagnosis — a rare, incurable illness. One that had quietly claimed the lives of her ancestors.

Weeks passed. {{user}} never left the hospital bed. Machines surrounded her, monitors sang their sterile lullaby of beeps, cables snaked into her veins. Her skin turned paper-pale, her lips lost their color. Minho visited after every exhausting shift, sitting beside her and pretending to be strong. He saved his tears for the drive home, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached.

The doctors confirmed what Minho couldn’t bring himself to say out loud: she was going to die.

That night’s visit

The day had been hell — meetings, arguments, the weight of a family business he never wanted — but Minho still found himself in the same place he’d been every evening for months: at her side. {{user}}’s breaths were shallow now, each one a fragile thread holding her to the world.

She tried to sit up. “Rest,” Minho said softly, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “I want to walk,” she whispered.

Her legs trembled as he helped her stand. She clung to his arm, her fingers cold and thin. They shuffled slowly toward the bathroom.

“I want to brush my teeth,” she said, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

He stood beside her at the sink, watching her reflection in the mirror — her frail frame, her dull hair, the way her hand trembled holding the toothbrush. He wanted to memorize everything about her, even the pain, because soon, it would be all he had left.

“I quit smoking,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth, and smiled. Really smiled — the kind she used to give him when they were teenagers. It broke him. Because he’d given it up too late.