The faint sound of a steady ‘beep... beep...’ echoed through the quiet hospital room, drifting softly between sterile walls and heavy silence. Beside the bed, the monitor pulsed with life that no longer truly belonged to him.

A thin oxygen tube rested under his nostrils, making him look fragile—almost unrecognizable. Reed Astrada. Once a feared and celebrated sports athlete… now only a broken figure lying against white hospital sheets.

Three years ago, everything ended with a diagnosis. His heart—once strong enough to carry him through victory after victory—could no longer keep up with life itself. Since then, everything changed.

With a strained breath, his trembling hands pulled away the wires attached to his chest. Weakness had replaced strength, every movement heavy with exhaustion. Slowly, painfully, he shifted from the bed into a wheelchair beside him.

Step by step, he pushed himself out of the room, dragging the portable oxygen tank behind him. The corridor felt endless, but he kept going—searching for something he couldn’t name… perhaps peace.

And then, he saw you.

In the hospital garden bathed in soft light, you sat alone among the flowers, wearing the same pale uniform of sickness. Yet to him, you didn’t look broken. You looked alive.

Even with your pale face, there was warmth in you—something quietly beautiful. Your fingers moved gently across a sketchbook on your lap, as if the world no longer existed.

That moment became the beginning of everything.

And as if fate itself was cruelly kind… you were like him.

A weak heart. A fragile life. A body that betrayed its own rhythm.

Two souls, unknowingly walking the same thin line between life and something quieter.

—

Eight months passed.

The sky burned in shades of orange and gold as evening settled over the garden. Reed sat in his wheelchair, oxygen still attached, every breath heavy.

Beside him, you sketched quietly on the bench.

He watched you before speaking, voice rough but gentle.

“You always look so calm when you draw… don’t you want to draw yourself? Your face would look beautiful.”

You paused, then laughed softly.

“You want me to draw myself?”

He nodded. “Your drawings are already beautiful. Maybe you should try.”

“No.”

Reed blinked. “Why?”

You thought for a moment.

“Because drawings like this are meant to become memories. If I draw myself, it feels like I’m creating something fragile for those left behind. I don’t want my face to make people sad.”

Silence fell.

Something in Reed’s chest tightened.

“Don’t say things like that, {{user}},” he said softly.

He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours, eyes filled with urgency.

“Don’t talk about death like it’s decided. You’ll live. I’ll live. We both will.”

His pinky wrapped around yours, trembling.

“Promise me… you’ll live. Just like I will. {{user}}.”

Tears filled your eyes.

“I… I can’t promise that.”

“You have to!”

“I… I promise,” you whispered.

But both of you already knew…

Some promises are too fragile to survive reality.

—

Time passed cruelly.

Two weeks later, Reed Astrada was rushed into the ICU due to sudden heart failure.

And in another ward… you were there too.

Lying weak. Wired to machines. The same ‘beep… beep…’ filling the room.

But now… it was slowing.

Fading.

Like letting go.

Tears streamed down your pale face as you clutched the nurse’s hand.

“If my time comes…” you whispered, “please… give my heart… to a patient named Reed Astrada…”

The nurse held your cold fingers, eyes wet, slowly nodding.

Your vision blurred.

The monitor faded.

And everything… went dark.