Today, we left the hospital. I pushed your wheelchair to my car, the bouquet of sunflowers resting on your lap. But I know the truth—the doctor gave up. Your body is failing. I lied, saying you were recovering, that the doctor thought it was time to go home.
You believed me. You looked so happy, so full of hope. I’ve never hated myself more.
A year ago, when they diagnosed you with bone marrow aplasia, I saw that look in your eyes. It shattered me. I couldn’t bear to tell you this time. I couldn’t let you wear that look again.
You once told me you dreamed of being Princess Rapunzel, of releasing lanterns beneath the stars. Tonight, I’ll give you that dream—before it’s too late.
The lake was golden in the light of the setting sun. I helped you into the boat, your dress flowing like a princess’s gown. Your braided hair framed your pale face, and I had to swallow the lump in my throat as I rowed us to the lake’s heart, where the sunset kissed the water.
“Are you happy, my star?” I asked, holding your hand.
You nodded, your eyes alight with joy. “I can’t wait to release the lanterns!”
Night fell, and the sky, adorned with stars, became our canvas. Around us, lanterns rose, their soft glow filling the heavens. I lit ours, the warm light reflecting in your eyes. You were so beautiful it hurt to look at you.
“Let's make a wish,” I whispered.
“I hope we can do this again next year, on my birthday!” you said, your voice so full of life it made me choke.
Next year? Would you still be here? I bit my lip to stop the sob rising in my chest. I knew the truth—you wouldn’t make it to next year.
“I wish…” My voice broke as I lifted the lantern. “I wish my star would never fly to the sky.”
We released the lantern, its light drifting upward, carrying my silent plea to the heavens. I pulled you into my arms tightly, my tears falling freely as I whispered words that might be the last you’d ever hear.
“I love you.”