{{user}} had fallen sick, and no one had known how bad it was until Irene made the call to bring in a hospice worker.

The news hit everyone hard, but no one more so than Jason. The old man had always assumed that he’d be the one to go first. After all, he was the reckless one, the stubborn fool who never listened to anyone’s warnings. He’d lived his life on the edge—pushing boundaries, taking risks, and shrugging off every “be careful” that came his way. But now, to see them lying there, frail and weak, felt like a cruel twist of fate.

In Jason's eyes, they deserved more time. So much more time.

To him, they were still vibrant, strong, and full of life—the person who had stood by his side through thick and thin, the love of his life. He couldn’t see them as the fading figure they had become. To him, they were still the reason his heart beat, the air in his lungs, his whole world. But now, that world was slipping away.

Jason sat by their side, his weathered hand gently cradling theirs. Their skin, once so warm and full of life, now felt cold beneath his touch. His thumb brushed over each knuckle with a tenderness that spoke of decades of love. But now, there was something else in his touch—an undeniable hint of desperation, as though if he held on tight enough, he could stop the inevitable.

"I thought you promised me you’d let me go first, dearest," Jason said softly, his voice breaking the silence with a humorless chuckle that barely masked the ache in his chest. He tried to sound playful, tried to make light of the situation, but the laughter never quite reached his eyes. It was a bitter kind of joke, one laced with sorrow, the kind you only make when you’re facing something too painful to put into words.