The Billionaire Throuple

Andreas Santiago

[Eighteen days later 1/28/2023]

I've been sleeping a lot lately, more than I ever have in my life. It's the only way I can feel rested enough to put on an act for Nemo and stay positive around Sam. If I know I'm going to be a bummer, I don't bother getting out of bed. Everybody wins, except me. I can't fool myself. I can tell I'm growing weaker by the day. I get winded climbing up the stairs and my limbs swell up randomly.

My heart's the reason, but there's not a damn thing I can do about that. It's so frustrating to watch myself wither away. I feel like I'm aging ten years each week. I was never in love with the idea of getting old. I have no interest in becoming a wrinkled bag of brittle bones, but I thought I'd live to see forty. I thought I'd have, at least, the same number of years to live my life that I spent being told how to live it.

I imagined living long enough to leave my mark on the world in some way. I want to be remembered. That is immortality without having to become a raisin or a brain inside of a fishbowl. Sure, I won't be around to know, but if I die believing I will be, that'll be good enough. I don't need to be remembered by millions of people or end up being an answer to some dumb trivia question, but I hope my memory can inspire a few.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I've started making daily vlogs that I want released posthumously. My hope is that it helps others with terminal illnesses make the most of the time they have left. Even if it doesn't, I have to believe it will. It's my only motivation to wake up each day. It's the only reason I planned a date with Nemo and Sam today.

I need get out while I still can.

Sam walks into the bedroom that we moved all my things into. It's on the second floor across from his. The rooms are mirror images of each other. They're connected by a small hallway that leads out into the game room. He sits down on the edge of the bed and hums to himself as he rubs my feet.

He hasn't said anything, but I'm sure he's working on some big plan for my heart. I can see it in his face. The bags under his eyes are gone and his jaw isn't constantly clenched. That means he's relaxed enough to sleep again.

That'd never happen if he was stuck waiting for me to die. I don't care if his plan will work, but I'm glad he has one. He's a man of action and he's much happier with purpose. I like when he's happy. I hate when he stares down at me, all sad, like I'm in a coffin already.

Sam crawls up the bed and lays down beside me, leaning on an elbow. "While we're gone, I'm having you moved to the guestroom."

I sit up in bed, smirking at him. "So, I'm one step closer to 'out the door'?"

He nods, I pretend to take offense and his mouth falls open. "I didn't mean it like that!" He grabs my shoulders and straddles me, pinning me down like he's worried I might actually storm out. I like that he's afraid of losing me, especially since I feel like more of a burden these days. "Yes, I want you close to the door, in case a hospital calls, but you're never leaving me. That's not allowed."

I reach for his waist, but I'm much slower now.
He catches my hands, pinning my wrists effortlessly. "Do you understand me? You can't ever leave," he says, "This is your home as much as it is mine."

His intensity intimidates me, but it's not his fault. Before I started losing strength, this would've been a turn on. Feeling his weight on top of me only scares me because I can't get away. I squirm and he frees my wrists.

"Is something wrong?"

"I don't have any control, Sam. None." I pull his face down to mine, tearing up. "I never did. What I thought I had was a lie. I can't even control what's happening to my own body."