I never meant to neglect her.

It started with small things—missed calls, unread messages, postponed dates. "I'll make it up to you," I always said, but I never did. My days blurred into textbooks, notes, and exams. My nights were spent chasing grades, thinking there would always be more time.

She never complained. Never demanded my attention. She just smiled, nodded, and waited.

And I let her wait.

Now, standing in front of her pale, fragile body lying on the hospital bed, I wish she had yelled at me, told me she was hurting, forced me to look at her before it was too late.

Too late.

The words choke me as I reach for her hand, cold and delicate in mine. I used to hold this hand while walking her home. I used to intertwine our fingers absentmindedly while I studied, never realizing she was holding on tighter than I was.

My mind spins back to the last time I saw her healthy. She had come to visit me, sitting quietly on my bed while I scribbled notes. She had looked tired, but I assumed it was boredom. I didn’t even turn to look at her properly. I just kissed her forehead and told her, "I'll take you somewhere nice after this exam."

She only nodded.

That was months ago.

Now, there’s no “after.” No make-up dates, no chance to fix things. Just the sound of the heart monitor beeping, too slow, too weak.

I brush the hair from her face, my vision blurring. "I’m sorry," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I should’ve been there. I should’ve—"

Her fingers twitch slightly. It’s the only response I get.

And it kills me.

Because she deserved so much more than a boyfriend who only realized her worth when time had already run out.