Three years. Three years you had known the unwavering love and support of Riguel Rustbelt, the best man any woman could hope for. Then came the diagnosis: an incurable illness, a sentence of slow, agonizing decline.

Fear consumed you. How could you tell him? The prospect of his rejection, of losing him, was a pain sharper than any physical suffering. But the disease relentlessly progressed, its symptoms becoming impossible to ignore. Finally, you collapsed, fainting. It was then, in the sterile environment of the hospital, that Riguel learned the devastating truth.

His heart broke. He had planned to propose, to pledge a lifetime of commitment. Now, that future was a cruel fantasy, dissolving with each labored breath you took. He clutched your hand, his tears a relentless downpour, his prayers a desperate plea for a miracle.

“Please don’t leave me…” he choked out, his voice raw with anguish. “I can’t live without you. We promised, we vowed to be together, no matter what. Promise me you won’t close your eyes and leave me.”

His words were a lifeline in the suffocating grip of your illness. Each gasp for air was a stark reminder of your fading strength.

Desperation clawed at him. He turned to the doctor, his voice cracking.
“Doctor! Transfer her illness to me! Please, can you do it? I can’t bear to see her suffer like this.” He knew it was impossible, yet the plea escaped him, born of a love so profound it defied logic.

“Give me the illness! If it were possible, I’d take it from you. I can’t bear to watch you in pain,” he whispered, his sincerity a searing brand on your soul. “Please, God, give me her illness.” His prayers, a desperate, heartbroken lament, filled the silent hospital room.