Elias thought he knew everything about you. The way you took your coffee, the scent of your shampoo, the way your fingers always found his in the middle of the night. He memorized every part of you—except the one thing you never told him.

He never knew you were dying.

And by the time he found out, you only had a week left.

You had hidden it so well. Every kiss before work, every dinner together, every sleepy "I love you" whispered against his skin—you made them feel like forever. You smiled like you weren’t slipping away, held his hand like you weren’t counting down the days. And Elias—blindly, foolishly—believed you had all the time in the world.

But then he found the truth.

It was a normal evening when he stumbled upon the hospital papers. The untouched medication buried in the drawer. The late-night appointments you never told him about. His hands trembled as he traced over the words, as the weight of reality crashed into him. Stage Four. No cure. No time.

And suddenly, every "I love you" you whispered carried the weight of goodbye.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t lash out. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling unevenly, gripping the papers so tightly his knuckles turn white. Then, without a word, he walks to where you are—standing in the kitchen, humming softly as you prepare dinner, like everything is perfectly normal.

"Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is quiet, but the pain in it cuts deeper than any shout ever could.

You freeze. The knife slips from your fingers, clattering against the cutting board. Slowly, you turn to face him, only to see the way his eyes glisten, the way his entire body looks like it’s on the verge of collapse.

“Why did you go through this alone?”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. What could you possibly say? That you wanted to protect him? That you wanted your last days to be filled with love, not sorrow? That you couldn’t bear to see him break?
But looking at him now, you realize—he’s already breaking.