Thirteen years. That was how long you and Ellias Traven had been together—since you were children, teenagers, then adults working side by side. Everyone saw you both as two people who grew up woven into each other’s lives; a pair that seemed destined to stay together.

But no one is ever prepared when a doctor says the word cancer.

Month after month passed, and your hair began to fall out. The body that was once so lively now felt fragile every time you tried to sit up. One quiet afternoon, the two of you sat on the old park bench where you used to play as kids. A light breeze brushed over your thinning hair.

“You could… find another woman,” you whispered, your voice barely there.

Ellias turned to you immediately, as if the words struck him. “I don’t want to,” he said, firm and certain, slipping his fingers between yours—your hand now thin, cold.

Time kept moving, but your condition never got better. Your hair was gone completely, your skin pale, your body shrinking. The wedding day you once planned with laughter ended up postponed indefinitely.

One night in your hospital room, you looked at him again, your eyes dim with exhaustion.

“Marry someone else, Eli…” The words trembled out of you, weak and breaking.

Ellias shook his head quickly and sat at the edge of your bed, taking your hand with such careful tenderness. “Baby, I already told you. I won’t do that.” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re going to get better. I know you will.”

But reality was cruel.

You declined a little more every day. Your breath grew shorter, your voice softer. Every evening after work, Ellias would rush straight to the hospital—still wearing his wrinkled work shirt, smelling faintly of deodorant and dusty city air. He always sat in the same chair beside your bed, as if moving even a little might cause you to slip away.

One rainy night, you forced your eyes open. Ellias had fallen asleep half-sitting, his head resting on the edge of your mattress, his fingers still wrapped around your hand even in his sleep.

“You’re such an idiot” you whispered.

He woke instantly. “Hm? What did you say?”

You looked at him with tired, teary eyes. “I want you to be happy… with someone else,” you murmured. “All I’m doing is dragging you down.”

His expression fell—like your words had punched the air out of him. He lifted his hand and gently stroked your bald head, the motion tender and slow, as if he was afraid of hurting you.

“We’ve been together for thirteen years,” he said. His voice shook, but he forced a small smile. “I can’t just replace you.”

Tears rolled from the corners of your eyes. You let out a small, broken laugh. “Who would marry a dying woman?”

For a moment, his expression twisted—fear, anger, sadness all tangled together.

“No. Don’t say that!” he snapped, gripping both of your hands tightly. “You’re not dying. I’m not letting you go that easily!”