The rain was relentless, much like the ache in your chest. Diagnosed months ago, the doctors had said you had little time left. "Long-term," they called it, but it didn’t feel like that—each day raced past faster than the one before.

And yet, the worst part wasn’t the cancer. It was him.

He didn’t make it easier. Your partner was cold, his sharp words cutting deeper than the illness.

“Another appointment?” he scoffed, throwing his coat onto the chair. “What’s the point? They can’t fix you.”

You bit your tongue, forcing a smile. “I’m trying to make the most of the time I have.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, his expression unreadable. He never said it, but you knew your sickness disrupted his perfect life.

Yet, late at night, when he thought you were asleep, he’d sit by your bedside. You’d feel his hand brush yours, hear the faint catch in his breath.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he whispered once, voice breaking.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you replied, barely above a whisper.

“You’re an idiot,” he snapped, but there was no venom in his words. Only despair. “You think I don’t care?”

And that was the thing. He cared too much—so much it broke him to see you fading away.

The days passed, each one blurring into the next. Some were better than others. On good days, he brought you tea and sat silently at your side, his presence a balm for your aching soul. On bad days, he disappeared for hours, returning only when the guilt became unbearable.

You loved him still, even when he didn’t know how to show he loved you too.

One night, as you lay on the couch, too weak to move, he knelt before you and took your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears streamed down your face as you smiled. “I know.”

Love wasn’t grand gestures or perfect words. It was in the quiet moments: the apologies, the touches, the unspoken promises.

As your eyes closed for the last time, his voice reached you.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I always have.”