You weren’t supposed to die like this— married to a man who barely looked at you, in a house that wasn’t a home.

The diagnosis had come a month ago. Terminal. No cure. You only had so much time left. You’d made peace with it— or, at least, tried to. You wanted to spend your final months soaking in sunlight, chasing dreams, telling stories worth remembering.

Instead, you were playing the role of someone’s wife. Someone who didn’t even know you were dying.

The door creaked open, late as always.

Orion stepped inside, reeking of expensive cologne and cheaper mistakes. Lipstick stains painted his white collar like a confession. Hickeys bloomed like bruises along his neck. He didn’t look at you.

Just tossed his keys into the bowl, shrugged off his jacket, and muttered, “Don’t wait up,” before disappearing into the bedroom you used to share.

You sat there in silence, a ghost in your own life.

He didn’t ask why you were still awake. He never asked anything.