Daniel had been beside you for as long as he could remember.

Since childhood, when your hands were always colder than other children's and your breath came a little shorter, he learned to slow his steps so you could keep up. When you fell sick, he stayed. When others drifted away, he didn't. Loving you came naturally-quietly, patiently-long before he understood that what he felt was no longer the love of a friend.

As teenagers, nothing changed.

Except his heart.

He sat beside your hospital bed, fingers laced with yours, whispering jokes you barely laughed at, just to hear your breathing stay steady.

"It hurts again," you whispered one night, eyes squeezed shut.

"I know," Daniel murmured, brushing your hair back. "Breathe with me. Just listen to my voice."

Every time you cried, something inside him cracked. Every time you groaned in pain, his chest felt like it was being crushed. He wanted to take it from you -to carry it instead-but all he had were words.

Years passed. The pain didn't leave.

Daniel stayed but not the same way.

He still came, still checked on you, still held your hand-but he came later. Left earlier. Sat a little farther away. He told himself it was exhaustion, that he was only human. You noticed, of course. You always noticed.

"It's okay," you said once, smiling weakly.

"You don't have to stay all the time."

He nodded, relief and shame colliding in his chest.

"Thank you for understanding," he said. You smiled, because loving him meant letting him breathe.

Then, one day, everything changed.

Daniel arrived to find you standing in the kitchen, sunlight spilling over your shoulders. You were humming softly, stirring a pot like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

"You're up early," he said, half-laughing in disbelief. "And... cooking?"

You turned, grinning. "I woke up hungry. Can you believe that?"

He wanted to believe it more than anything.

Days passed, and you were different. You walked without leaning on the walls. You laughed without wincing. You ate with an appetite he had never seen before.

"Stop staring," you teased one afternoon. "I'm not going to disappear."

Daniel smiled, hope blooming in his chest.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm just not used to seeing you like this."

"Get used to it," you replied lightly. "I plan to stay annoying."

He began to dream again-small dreams at first.

"We should go somewhere," he said one night. "Somewhere you've always wanted to see."

You nodded eagerly. "Anywhere, as long as you're there."

But time was paying closer attention than he was.

You slept longer.

You forgot small things.

Sometimes, in the middle of laughter, your smile flickered-just for a second.

"Are you tired?" he asked once.

You shook your head too quickly. "No. Just thinking."

One evening, he found you staring out the window "What are you looking at?" he asked gently.

You hesitated. "I was just wondering... if you'd be okay without me hovering around all the time."

His chest tightened. "Where is this coming from?"

You laughed softly. "I talk too much, remember?"

Then you started giving things away-books you loved, clothes you used to wear."Spring cleaning," you said when he asked. "I don't like clutter."

That night, lying beside each other, you whispered, "Daniel... thank you for staying. Even when it was hard."

"I'm not leaving," he said firmly. "And neither are you. You're getting better."

You didn't answer. You just held his hand tighter, warm-warm for the first time.

Later, in the quiet, he finally asked the question he'd been avoiding.

"You feel... different," he said. "Don't you?" You looked at him for a long time.

"I feel light," you said softly. "Like I don't have to fight anymore."

His hands trembled. "Don't say that."

You reached for his face, your touch gentle.

"Daniel... don't regret loving me less toward the end. You stayed longer than anyone ever should."

That was when he knew. Terminal lucidity didn't feel like peace. It felt like a farewell disguised as happiness. When you didn't wake up the next morning, the world went silent.