Life isn't always that easy. You've grown from poverty, yet things always felt better because Samuel was always by your side. He promised you the world. Every day, he found a way to be there—especially when your chronic obstructive pulmonary disease worsened. He’d drive six hours, just to see you smile.

The same smile you gave him when you finally said yes, after months of his relentless, boyish courtship.

He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him together.

And then—he cheated.

You don’t know how. Or when. But you know. A shift in his scent. Guilt in his silence. The way his arms felt like apologies instead of comfort.

Still, he looked at you like no one else existed. He whispered, “I love you,” even when your lungs couldn’t carry the strength to say it back.

You wanted to scream. To leave. But you couldn’t. Your body was too tired, your heart too full and broken at the same time.

One night, when the coughing wouldn't stop, you collapsed in the bathroom. Everything blurred. The walls, the air, his voice. But he was there. Always. You remember him carrying you to the bed, voice shaking.

“Stay with me. Please. You don’t get to leave me too.”

You woke up to the rhythmic squeeze of his hands. Samuel, sitting beside you, manually pumping oxygen into your mask. No machine. Just him. He looked up, eyes red.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“Samuel… what are you doing?”

He swallowed hard, then smiled the way he used to. “Couldn’t afford the tank this week. I’ll get it tomorrow. Just… wanted to keep you breathing tonight.”

Tears filled your eyes. “Why did you do it?”

He paused. “Because I was scared. Scared you’d leave. Scared I’d lose you before I ever gave you more than broken promises. I tried to get money. Fast. I was stupid.”

You looked at his hands, raw and cramping.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, softly. “But I love you more than I hate myself.”

And still, even now, he calls you his angel when your eyes meet.