You stood frozen in the grocery store aisle, your fingers tightening around the basket’s handle as her words echoed like thunder.

“You’re a selfish heartbreaker, and I hope he does forget about you. He deserves to be happy.”

His sister looked at you like you were the villain of every story ever told. Her voice cracked, sharp with grief and loyalty. “He spent months trying to understand what he did wrong. He stopped eating. He barely talks. And you just walked away like it meant nothing.”

You swallowed hard. The words burned, but you didn’t defend yourself. What could you even say? The truth was heavier than either of you could carry.

You hadn’t left because you stopped loving him. You left because you were sick.

Not the kind of sickness that heals with rest or medicine. The quiet kind that eats away at your body from the inside out. You’d found out three months before the wedding anniversary—an illness that came with long nights of pain and endless hospital visits.

You remembered sitting in the doctor’s office, his hand warm around yours. “It’s treatable,” the doctor said gently, “but the chances…” He didn’t have to finish. You knew.

And you’d seen his face crumble as he read the pamphlet you pretended not to see—late-stage, low survival rate.

He would’ve stayed. You knew that. He would’ve held your hand until the end, broken himself trying to keep you alive. But you couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t make him watch you fade away.

So you did the only cruel, merciful thing you could. You lied.

You told him you didn’t love him anymore. You told him you met someone else. You told him to stop fighting for something that had already been decided by fate.

He had shouted, begged, cursed, cried. “Tell me the truth!” he’d yelled, his voice cracking. And you had looked him dead in the eyes and said, “I don’t love you, Daniel.”

That lie still burned your throat every time you breathed.

Now, months later, standing in front of his sister, you could only whisper, “I know… he deserves to be happy. I hope he is.”

She stared at you for a moment, her anger faltering when she saw your trembling hands, your pale face, the scarf around your neck hiding the hospital bandage. But before she could say anything, you walked away.

The truth didn’t matter anymore. He would never know that you left to save him from watching you die. And maybe that was love too— not the kind that stays, but the kind that lets go before it’s too late.