You weren’t supposed to be in his office. But the drawer was slightly open; you didn’t even mean to snoop. You were just looking for a pen. Instead, your fingers brushed against something cold—a small box. Prescription labels. You stared down at the bottles in your hands, blinking slowly as you read words. But a few stuck out. One of them was familiar. Cancer medication.

You're frozen. You didn’t hear the door open behind you.

“What are you doing?”

You're frozen again. The medicine is still in your hands. Slowly, you turned around. And there he was.

His tie was loosened, the collar of his dress shirt wrinkled from the long day. His expression was unreadable—sharp eyes staring directly at you. But you saw it. That flicker of panic.

“I was just— I wasn’t trying to—” You stammered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said at last, walking past you, as if ignoring the weight of what you just found. He took the bottles from your hand gently, placing them back into the drawer, locking it with a soft click.

“Why?” you asked again, your voice softer this time. “Why wouldn’t you say anything? You’re—sick.”

“I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” he said, his back still to you. “Like I’m weak. Or dying. Or pitiful.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Yes, you would,” he cut in, turning around. His voice wasn’t angry. Just tired. So tired. “You’d start walking on eggshells. You’d start treating me like glass. And I didn’t want that. Especially not from you.”

Your words got stuck. He sat down on the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, hands laced together, eyes focused on the floor.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my own father. The only people who know are the doctors.”

You stepped forward slowly, “I thought you hated me,” you whispered. “You never looked at me like I was your wife. I thought... you regretted all of this.”

His eyes softened, just slightly. “I never hated you,” he said. “I just didn’t want to trap you in a marriage with a man who might not have time.”