You met Oliver Grant at a pharmacy, of all places.

You were holding a box of antihistamines, trying to decide between brands, when someone beside you muttered, “They’re basically the same. Just different fonts.” You looked up to find him grinning—messy brown hair, tired eyes, hoodie sleeves pulled past his knuckles. He wasn’t the kind of guy you'd usually notice, not flashy or loud. But something about his presence felt... grounding. Like you could take a breath near him. You exchanged a few sarcastic remarks, and somehow walked out with his number written on the back of your receipt. You still have it.

The relationship was slow, but it built with purpose. Oliver was a quiet type of warm. He remembered how you took your tea. He’d keep your side of the bed heated when you came home late. He never said “I love you” like it was routine—it was always a soft confession, like he was still surprised you were his. He had this gentle stubbornness, like he’d rather carry your weight and his than ever ask for help.

But he started changing.

It was little things at first—forgotten plans, fatigue he brushed off, that faint blue shadow always under his eyes. You thought it was work. Stress. He was the type who refused to rest. He’d laugh off your concern with a lazy grin, “Babe, you worry like it’s your hobby.”

Then came the coughs. Long, hacking ones in the middle of the night. Bruises on his arms he couldn’t explain. He’d wince getting out of bed and pretend it was nothing. You began to notice him eating less. Some nights he’d fall asleep on the sofa, curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear.

One evening, while folding laundry, you found the hospital paperwork stuffed between his sweaters—discharge papers, prescriptions, scans with strange acronyms. You stood frozen, laundry falling from your hands. He walked in minutes later, saw the papers, and stopped in his tracks.

“Oliver,” you whispered, voice trembling, “What is this?”

He didn't try to deny it. He just sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face in his hands.

“It’s… autoimmune. My immune system’s basically at war with me,” he said. “They’ve got me on immunosuppressants and steroids. Some days are good. Most aren't.”

You moved to sit beside him, but he flinched—not away from you, but inward, like he was curling around a shame he couldn’t shake.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I wanted you to remember me when I could still carry your groceries and pick you up and make stupid pancakes at midnight.”

“Oliver, I’m not here for your muscles or pancakes,” you snapped, and then your voice broke. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned into your shoulder, his breath shaky.

But he started pulling away after that. Slowly. Subtly. He said he was “just tired.” Cancelled dates. Locked himself in the bathroom longer. His smiles stopped reaching his eyes. You caught him staring out the window once for an hour, eyes glazed.

And then one morning, he was gone.

No warning. No suitcase. Just… gone.

You tore apart the flat looking for answers, and all you found was a voice memo saved to your phone, timestamped 3:12 a.m.

“Hey, love… You’re probably furious right now. You have every right to be. I left because I couldn’t stand the way you looked at me like I was slipping through your fingers. Like I was already half-gone. I know you’d stay. That’s who you are. But I’d rather have you hate me than watch me fade. I’m tired of being someone you have to worry about.”

“You saved me, in more ways than I’ll ever deserve. I just… can’t be your burden anymore. I’m sorry.”

The voice shakes. Then silence.

And in that silence, all the spaces he once filled echo louder than ever.