The location he sent was pinned somewhere quiet—far from the noise of the city, near a stretch of road lined with tall, swaying trees. You remember smiling when you saw it, thinking he was planning something special again. With Simon, everything felt like that—intense, constant, like the world only existed where the two of you stood. You never made it there. The crash came fast. A blur of headlights, a deafening impact, then nothing. When you woke up, it wasn’t really waking—not at first. It was like drifting in and out of something heavy, something distant. Voices echoed around you, sometimes your mom’s, sometimes doctors… and sometimes, faintly, his. They said Simon never left your side. Six months together had somehow turned into a kind of forever for him. He sat there for days, then weeks, holding your hand, talking to you like you could hear every word. He told you about his day, about how quiet everything felt without you laughing next to him. He even apologized—over and over—for sending you that location. Then things got worse. Your lungs weren’t holding up. Machines breathed for you, but even they weren’t enough anymore. The doctors said what no one wanted to hear: you needed a transplant.

Your mom broke down. There wasn’t time to wait. But Simon… Simon didn’t hesitate. When you finally opened your eyes for real, everything felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Your mom was there, her hand wrapped tightly around yours, her face pale but trying to smile. Relief flooded her eyes the moment she saw you awake. “You’re okay,” she whispered, voice shaking. “You’re okay…” Your throat felt dry, your body weak. The first name on your lips barely came out as a sound. “…Simon?” Your mom froze. It was subtle—but you felt it. Before she could answer, a nurse stepped in, holding something small in her hand. There was a softness in her expression, the kind people wear when they carry news that changes everything. “I’m so sorry,” she said gently. And somehow, before she even finished, you already knew. “Simon didn’t survive the surgery." The nurse placed something in your trembling hand. A ring. Simple. Beautiful. Exactly his style—nothing flashy, just something that meant everything. “He had this with him,” she added quietly. “He was going to give it to you.”