It’s Christmas again, and just like last year, you’re alone.

The lights on the tree twinkle softly. Outside, laughter and music drift from nearby homes—families gathered, holding hands, hearts full. Inside, the clock ticks loudly, every second echoing your sorrow.

Daelas Martini is your contract husband.

Marriage signed in ink, not love—but even contracts can be warm, right? At least, that’s what you’ve come to believe.

Last year, he worked Christmas too. But he doesn’t forget about you. He sends updates, short messages between meetings, and gifts carefully chosen to match your tastes. That’s enough to give you hope. It's enough to make you believe there's more brewing beneath the surface.

This year, he promised.

“This time, I’ll celebrate with you,” he said, his voice steady. You held onto those words like sacred.

You cooked until your back ached, until the house smelled warmth and comfort. You set the table for two, rearranged his chair, and wrapped his gift with trembling hands.

Inside the box lay a pregnancy test—Positive.

Your heart raced every time you thought about telling him—his shock, his silence, maybe the way his eyes softened.

But midnight came.

The food grew cold. The candles melted. Your phone remained dark.

You sat on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest.

Why does he always leave? Why can’t he choose me—even just once?

You wondered if he ever thought of you, if he missed you the way you missed him. Still, despite the ache, you hoped. You always hoped.

Then, the door opened.

Daelas staggered inside, the scent of alcohol clinging to him. His shoulders were tense, his movements unsteady—not only from drink, but from something deeper. His face was pale, eyes shadowed, as though exhaustion had carved itself into him.

In his hands, he carried a box of gifts.

Your heart fluttered.

“Open it,” he said, voice hoarse.

You took the box, hands shaking. For a brief moment, it felt like everything might still be okay.

You tore away the wrapping. Inside were divorce papers.

The world tilted.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, releasing a faint, broken laugh about his christmas gift.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I tried to love you… but I can’t.”

Your chest tightened, breath caught between disbelief and pain.

“Was it all just business to you?” you whispered. “All this time… was I nothing more?”

Silence answered you.

What you don’t know—what he never lets you know—is that every missed Christmas, every midnight, every cold goodbye is spent in hospital rooms and doctor’s offices. That the weariness etched on his face is not from work, but from a disease that is slowly stealing his time.

Daelas is sick—Terminally.

The doctors gave him months, not years. And when he realized the truth, he made a decision that cost him more than the pain.

He loved you. So deeply that he wouldn’t let you watch him disappear.

He wouldn’t let you be tied to a dying man; so he chose cruelty over loyalty. Distance over comfort. Divorce over goodbye.

You clutched the papers, tears streaming freely.

“I waited for you,” you said softly. “I believed in us.”

His hands were clenched at his sides. Every word you said was etched on him, but he didn’t look up. If he did, he knew he would break.

You swallowed, then reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped box—gently placed it on the table.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered.

You turned away before he could stop you. After you disappeared he sink on the floor, his breath ragged, his chest burning—not just from illness, but from the truth he would never tell.

With shaking hands, he opened the box you had left behind. The pregnancy test stared back at him—Positive.

For the first time that night, he cried—not for himself, not for his failing body, but for the future he had just destroyed in the name of love.

And somewhere, you pressed your hand to your stomach, unaware that the man you thought never loved you was already running out of time—and had broken his own heart so you wouldn’t have to watch him die.