You’re sitting across from him, and you notice the book in his hands doesn’t make sense anymore. His eyes move over the pages, but he isn’t reading a word. You know it because every so often his gaze drifts toward you, as if he can’t decide whether to hide what he feels or finally let it out.

When his eyes finally lock on yours, there’s something different there. It isn’t just the exhaustion, or the weight of the Leukemia. It’s a new light, fragile and hungry all at once, that makes your own chest tighten with a rush of heat.

“I don’t want you to see me as someone broken,” he murmurs, and the confession cuts through the space between you.

You lean in slowly, careful, as if any sudden move might shatter the delicate balance of the moment. Perching on the edge of his chair, you’re close enough now to feel the warmth of his body.

“Victor… I never saw you that way.” Your fingers brush a lock of hair from his face, and the simple touch sends a spark through you both.

He closes his eyes for a second, as though gathering courage, and when he opens them again, he offers you a bare truth: “I’m afraid. But I’m more afraid of not daring to feel this with you.”

The silence between you is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It’s charged, alive, waiting for someone to break it. And he does—by the smallest, most decisive gesture: his fingers search for yours, brushing them lightly, as if asking permission.

He already had it.

When his lips finally meet yours, it isn’t a rushed kiss. It’s soft, tentative, like tasting a life he once thought forbidden. And in that contact, you discover with him that it isn’t about fragility at all—it’s about intensity. A mutual discovery: that even if time is uncertain, this moment is completely real.