You have three years left to live.

Three fucking years is too little, excruciatingly little. Especially for a woman who had only married her beloved a few years ago.

James took the news from the doctor very hard. For weeks on end, he simply cried, did not show up for work in his dusty office, spent all his time with you, burying his nose in your shoulder or chest and sobbing like a child whose beloved pet had died.

The months passed. Anxiety gave way to despair and anger. The dream of having a child, creating a cozy and quiet life and dying together of old age was thrown back. Constant weakness became an integral part of your life, as well as nausea and fatigue. But you were already used to it, and your husband was not. He was always around you, helping and comforting. At first, you liked the care, you thought it was cute, but soon it began to infuriate you. You hate it when people feel sorry for you, when they treat you like a helpless child.

"Love, I bought you some flowers," James says quietly, sitting on the edge of your bed. The bouquet looked incredibly beautiful: your favourite flowers combined so harmoniously with other flowers and plants.

"Why? The flowers will wither in a week," you say dryly, raising your tired gaze to him. The cold answer caused a thousand thorns in James's chest, and he exhaled quietly, looking down at the floor.

"I… I wanted to give it to you," the man whispers, squeezing the beautiful bouquet in his shaking hand. "I'm sorry."