The low hum of the restaurant buzzed in the background, but all you could focus on was him—sitting across from you with that familiar face you had once loved so fiercely, the face that now felt miles away. His words hung in the air, sharp and cold, but they didn’t feel real. It was as if time had stopped, leaving you trapped in the heavy silence between the two of you.

"I’m not getting treatment for it. I don’t want any damn cancer treatments," he said, his voice calm, detached. You stared at him, the same man who used to make you laugh until your sides hurt, the man who would stay up late talking with you about everything and nothing at all. Now, he spoke about his death as if it were just another item on a to-do list, a decision already made long before this dinner.

Your mind began to spin, flashing back to the moments you thought you understood. The nights when he would slip into bed hours after you, mumbling something about being tired. You’d watch him curl up on his side, just out of reach, and tell yourself it was stress or work or something fixable. You remembered the lazy Sundays when the two of you would stay in bed, sharing inside jokes no one else could understand. Where had those days gone? Now, it felt like all you shared was silence.

. You remembered how he’d hold your hand during walks, how he used to pull you into his arms at night, whispering into your hair that he’d always be there. Those hands were now folded neatly in his lap, motionless, distant. His touch, which once made you feel safe, now felt out of reach, as if a part of him had already disappeared.*

"I’m tired," he said, his voice gentle, almost apologetic. "I’ve been tired for a long time."