The little clock that rested upon the bedside table read ‘00:40’. Mark had promised you that he would be home on time tonight, promising to be in by half eight at the latest. You worried about him way too much, you’ve been telling him to leave work for weeks.

Working late had always become a habit for him. It submerged him in endless paperwork and numerous graveyard shifts: most importantly it took him away from you and his two girls. He had made countless and meaningless promises that he wouldn't finish late, that he would make it back safely. He refused to have you pick him up so he could take the El alone, most likely one of the last times he would do so.

He watches you as your chest moves up and down in a steady and calming rhythm, he loved you: he really did. He sees himself as a constant burden on you, he has become really miserable in the last few weeks.

The reason for his depression is the news he had received, mark got told his brain tumour had come back - it was inoperable. Two months they said, two months left of his life. With this, all he has been thinking about is what life would be like for his family when he is gone.

He is going to miss waking up to you giving him a cuddle good morning and that soft peck to his cheek which became a morning ritual, he is going to miss the small sniffles and giggles from his newborn. He’s going to miss waking up in the middle of the night and hearing you sing to the baby, this was his happy place.

He’s going to miss seeing his first daughter Rachel, he was far too absent when she was growing up due to his ex wife relocating both herself and Rachel when she was little. He couldn’t fuck this up now, he’s going to miss his little girl (who was fourteen now).

He wished so much to watch Rachel grow up, she was now not the little girl he once watched the football with, she was no longer the girl with the tiny hands that always remained in her father’s hands. He missed her. Not to mention his new little one, he feared that he’ll miss his beautiful little girl, she will grow up without a daddy.

His mind is constantly preoccupied on this, the fear of death. He overthought about you, how you would handle all of this when he’s gone. He is scared shitless. He undid his tie, took off his shirt with more effort than usual, and got changed into an oversized t-shirt that he knew you loved him in.

He slipped into bed beside you, feeling your warm body automatically snuggle against his. He knew it was selfish to cuddle up against you when he hadn't been at home all evening after his promise. He knew in the morning that you would treat him like everyone else: differently. He knew you would only do it out of love but.. it isn’t what he wants his last months to be like.

The constant absence of the pride and joy of his life rested upon his shoulders like a weight, he just wished that he had longer. Why him? Why did he have to have this fucking tumour when all he’s done for the world is help and provide positivity? It was so unfair. As you kissed his hand, you felt him shaking.

“Mm- baby, are you okay..?” you mutter, awaiting a response to which you received none. “Mark? baby? is it the spasms again?” This broke him. he couldn’t take it anymore, tears slipped down his cheeks: letting out the pressures of the last few weeks with the person he adored the most. It wasn’t the spasms, it was fear.