5 years. 1827 days. 43830 hours of a love so profound it could light up the darkest days, filled with two beautiful children and memories that would outlive you both. But now, time seemed to stretch thin, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. The fight had been long, and though you battled with everything you had, the leukemia was relentless. No amount of money or effort could turn the tide.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of machines. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the reality you faced. Charles stepped in, his usual composure shattered, his eyes rimmed with a redness you had rarely seen. He wasn’t the strong, confident man who had always seemed unbreakable — here, he was just Charles, your Charles, and he was hurting.

He sat down beside you, his hand instinctively reaching for yours as if to anchor himself. The weight of the moment pressed down on both of you like a heavy fog. He swallowed hard before speaking, his voice raw and trembling.

"The doctors said you probably only have a few more weeks…” he muttered, his words breaking under the strain of emotion.

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, and you squeezed his hand gently, trying to offer comfort even as the news settled over you both like a crushing blow. There was nothing left to say, no words that could soften the pain. But in that moment, you knew he wasn’t just grieving the time you would lose; he was mourning the life you had built together and the future you wouldn’t get to see.

Charles pressed a kiss to your hand, holding it close as if to memorize the feel of your skin, the warmth that he knew he would one day lose. And for now, all either of you could do was hold onto each other.