Once upon a time, in a small town nestled among rolling hills, there lived a man who once meant everything to me. We had grown up together, our lives intertwined like the branches of two old oak trees. We were inseparable, sharing secrets, dreams, and countless moments of laughter.
The rain poured relentlessly as I stood at the window, my heart heavy with unspoken words and shattered dreams. Next to me stood Shoto, the love of my life, his eyes filled with confusion and desperation. The room was filled with silence, the tension between us was almost suffocating.
My health had started to deteriorate. The doctors were baffled, and despite the numerous tests and consultations, they couldn't provide a clear diagnosis. My condition worsened with each passing day and I knew what was coming in the long run. But, he didn't.
"Feeling a bit lighter, are we?" He asked, his voice laced with a teasing lilt.
"You could say that," I smiled, my gaze still fixed outside. "Though I doubt the rain cares much about my wardrobe changes."
He chuckled. "Right, well, at least the new sweater looks fantastic. It really brings out your eyes." He gestured towards the soft knit hugging my form.
"Thanks." I mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve. It was a beautiful sweater, a birthday gift he'd surprised me with just a few weeks ago.
He shifted closer, his breath tickling my ear. "Hey," He said softly, "Is something bugging you? You know you can talk to me, right?"
I bit my lip. Could I really burden him with this truth, this terrifying future I desperately wanted to shield him from? The thought was unbearable.
"It's just... this weather," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. "It always makes me a little down."
He wasn't convinced. I could feel his gaze on me, intense and searching. "There's more to it, isn't there?"
I let out a shaky breath. "Maybe." I conceded, the word tasting like defeat on my tongue. "But maybe talking about it won't help."
He crossed his arms, a stubborn crease appearing between his brows. "It might not." He conceded, his voice firm. "But not talking about it definitely won't."
"Maybe later." I offered, my voice barely audible. "Right now, all I want is a cup of hot chocolate and to pretend the world isn't damn near ending outside."
He didn't push further, but I could see the disappointment clouding his eyes. "Alright." He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Hot chocolate it is. But you owe me a real conversation later."
The silence settled back over us as Shoto retreated to the kitchen, the clinking of mugs and the hiss of the kettle the only sounds breaking the monotony of the rain. I perched on the edge of the sofa, the emerald green fibers of the sweater feeling scratchy against my skin. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to tell him, to unburden myself of the secret gnawing at my insides.
"Hey," Shoto called out from the kitchen, his voice laced with a forced cheer. "Whipped cream or marshmallows?"
The question, so ordinary in its domesticity, felt like a lifeline thrown across a churning sea. A small laugh escaped my lips. "Both."
He appeared in the doorway, a mug in each hand, the familiar mischievous glint back in his eyes, a glint I desperately clung to. We settled back on the sofa and sat in comfortable silence with only the sound of the rain being heard in the background.
He finally set his mug down, the clink echoing in the quiet room. "Alright," he said, his voice serious. "What's really going on?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know where to start.
He waited, his gaze flickering to the drawer by the coffee table. My breath hitched, did he already know? "I saw it," He confirmed my suspicions. "The file, in the drawer. But I didn't look. I didn't want to pry. I just... I wanted you to tell me."
"Shoto, I..." I began, the words catching in my throat.
"Don't lie to me anymore," He cut me off, his voice rough with emotion. "Tell me what's happening. Tell me why you're so scared."
He reached out, his hand hovering over mine for a moment before settling gently on top. "We'll face it together," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "But I need you to fight with me, y/n. I need you to tell me the truth, even if it's not good news."
I squeezed my eyes shut. "It's the tests, Shoto," I finally managed, my voice cracking. "They said the illness... it's spread too far. The treatments we tried... they haven't been effective."
Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision. Shoto's hand tightened around mine, his grip a silent plea for me to continue.
"They said..." I began again, my voice trembling. Each syllable felt like a shard of glass tearing through my throat. "They said it has worsened. There's not much they can..."
I couldn't finish the sentence. The words, cold and clinical, refused to leave my lips.
Shoto didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me in an embrace. The warmth of his body seeped into mine. For a long while, we sat there.
When he pulled back, his eyes were red but and face was hardened. "We'll fight it." He declared, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll find you the best doctors, the best treatments. You won't go through this alone. I'll be right here."
The flicker of hope in his voice was a balm to my wounded heart. But, I knew the harsh reality. "Shoto," I whispered, "They said the chances of chances of a successful treatment are..." I hesitated, searching for the right words, the words that wouldn't shatter his hope entirely.
"Low?"
"Very." I nodded. "It might do more harm than good. My days might get even more numbered."
"How much time?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Weeks," I whispered, the word a physical weight on my tongue. "Maybe a few months at most."
"Weeks." He repeated the words, as if trying to grasp them, to make them fit in a world that suddenly felt like it was collapsing in on itself. "There has to be something else the doctors can do."
"We'll look," I rasped, my voice choked with emotion. "We'll get second opinions, research every option. But Shoto," I continued, my voice catching in my throat, "we have to be realistic."
His eyes met mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them , denial, anger, a flicker of fear that mirrored my own. He nodded slowly, the weight of my words settling on him like a leaden cloak.
"Then let's make the most of the time we have," He said finally, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Is there anything you want while you're here? A special meal, a different room, anything?"
"Maybe some pictures?" I suggested. "Pictures of family, of our trips together..."
"Done." He said without hesitation. "I'll get them tomorrow. We can hang them all around the room."
A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
"There's one more thing," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Anything." He responded instantly.
"I... I don't want to die alone," I confessed.
He cupped my face in his warm hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that streamed down my face.
"You won't," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise. I won't let you be alone, not for a single second. I'll be here, every step of the way."
"But what about work? What about..." The questions tumbled out, anxieties I hadn't voiced before.
He squeezed my hand gently. "Work can wait." He said firmly. "There's nothing more important than you. We'll figure things out. We can talk to your doctor, maybe arrange something for me to stay here with you."
"Even if it gets hard?"
"Especially then." He smiled.