“I have cancer. Stage four.”

I expected his face to fall, for his hands to reach for mine, for him to promise we’d fight together. Instead, he went still, eyes unreadable.

“…I see.”

Two days later, I found the envelope on the kitchen counter. My name, {{user}} written in his familiar scrawl.

My fingers shook as I opened it.

Petition for Divorce.

The front door clicked open. I turned, throat tight. “You’re leaving me?”

He sighed, setting his coat down. “It’s for the best.”

“The best for who?” My voice cracked. “You swore to love me through everything. Through sickness and health—”

“I can’t do this.” His voice was quiet, final. “This isn’t something I can live through with you”.

The air left my lung. A slow, painful suffocation.

He had already mourned me.

Long before I was even gone.