It started with headaches. Small, stupid things. Enough to make Nolan wince when the lights were too bright or forget why he’d opened the fridge. You didn’t think much of it at first. Just stress, right? Too many late nights. Too much coffee. Not enough sleep. He joked about it. You laughed with him. Neither of you wanted to be the first to say this feels wrong.

Then came the silences. The pauses that lasted too long. The nights Nolan stared at the wall like he was trying to remember who he used to be.

The diagnosis landed like a bomb in the middle of your shared life: a rare neurological disorder. No cure. No timeline. Just… decline. A slow erasure. Like watching someone you love dissolve in real time.

The hospital was cold. Ugly. It smelled like bleach and waiting. Nolan hated it. You hated it more — the way it stripped him of everything that made him him. His sarcasm. His music. His stubborn, perfect laugh.

You asked the doctor for a number once. “What are the chances?” you whispered, not sure which answer would hurt more — false hope, or the truth.

The doctor looked at the floor.

So you stayed. You stayed through it all — the tremors, the confusion, the cruel days when Nolan didn’t recognize your voice right away. You read him books he could no longer follow. Played the records you used to dance to in the kitchen. Held his hand like it could anchor him to the moment.

But Nolan knew. That was the worst part. He knew. Knew exactly what he was losing. What you were losing. And he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t protect you from the grief clawing its way in, day by day.

One night, with rain clawing down the windows like it was trying to break in, Nolan turned to you, eyes hollow with apology, voice a ghost of what it once was.

“You should go,” he whispered.

It was the first sentence he’d spoken all day. Maybe the hardest one of his life.

And you broke. Quietly.