The first time David felt it—really felt it—was the morning after the performance.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in one hand, staring at the slight tremble in the other.
Not nerves.
Not cold.
Something deeper. More final.
He looked at his reflection like it belonged to someone else.
A stranger with his face.
His eyes.
But not his time.
He braced his palms on the sink and whispered, "Not yet."
As if saying it would keep the clock from ticking louder.
---
Amelia had never known silence like this.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the heavy kind.
This was the in-between silence. The kind that follows joy like a shadow. The kind that makes you wonder if happiness ever came without consequences.
She stood on her porch, hoodie zipped to her chin, mug of chamomile steaming in her hands.
She could still feel the echo of the stage lights on her skin.
The way the applause felt like a heartbeat.
The way David had looked at her like she was made of light.
She should've been over the moon.
Instead, her ribs ached.
Not the illness.
Not quite.
Just... pressure. Like something inside her was trying to get out.
Or fall apart.
---
She found his notebook again that afternoon. Still in her bag. Still where he'd let her keep it.
She hadn't read past the first two pages.
Hadn't dared.
But today felt different.
Wrong, somehow.
So she opened it again.
Page 3:
> I don't know how to tell her.
That love feels like standing too close to the sun.
That every time she laughs, I feel like I'm burning alive.
And I want to keep burning.
But what if it means I die before I get to see her happy?
Her hands trembled.
Not because of the words.
But because she knew.
She knew this wasn't just poetic metaphor.
David was telling her something.
And suddenly, her chest filled with something she hadn't let herself feel since she was twelve.
Panic.
She flipped the next page.
> The doctors called it Affectinal Regression Syndrome.
I call it bad timing.
Because how do you live with a disease that kills you for loving someone who makes life worth living?
Her heart stopped.
Her eyes blurred.
She closed the book fast enough to bruise the pages.
Stood up too quickly.
The mug shattered on the floor beside her.
She didn't even flinch.
Just stood there.
Staring at nothing.
Letting the silence scream.
---
She didn't go to school the next day.
Didn't text Ms. Parker.
Didn't answer David's calls.
She pulled her covers over her head and stared at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
It wasn't just that he was sick.
It was that he hadn't told her.
That he had let her smile. Let her hope. Let her start to believe in things again... knowing the cost.
She understood, in some twisted, tragic way.
But she still felt betrayed.
Like they had built something fragile together and he had let her fall first without telling her the ground was gone.
---
David stared at the school doors for ten minutes before he turned around.
She wasn't coming.
And he knew why.
He'd left the book too close to the truth.
Too close to the edge.
And now they were falling.
Separately.
Alone.
---
Three days passed.
No contact.
Not even from Ms. Parker.
It was the first time since they met that David felt the weight of time pressing down on him without her voice to soften it.
He tried to write.
But the words didn't come.
He tried to eat.
But nothing stayed down.
His mom asked him what was wrong.
He just smiled.
"I think I'm tired."
---
On the fourth day, he went to her house.
Didn't text first.
Didn't even knock.
Just stood outside her gate, staring at the chipped paint and rusted mailbox like they were signs from the universe.
After five minutes, she came out.
No shoes.
Just socks and her oversized hoodie.
She looked tired.
He probably did too.
They stared at each other.
Said nothing.
Then she spoke, voice barely a breath.
"You lied."
He looked down.
"I didn't want to scare you."
"You were dying, David."
He flinched.
"So were you."
That hurt more than she expected.
Still, she pressed on.
"You should've told me."
"I didn't want you to stop smiling."
"That wasn't your decision."
He nodded slowly.
"I know."
Silence.
Then she crossed the yard and stood in front of him.
Looked up.
"I don't want your goodbye to come wrapped in poetry."
"I know."
"I don't want your death to feel like a plot twist."
"I know."
"I just wanted—" her voice broke. "—time."
He reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
"Then take it," he whispered. "Whatever time I have, it's yours."
She stared at him.
For a long time.
Then finally, quietly:
"I'm scared of loving you."
His voice cracked.
"I'm scared of you loving me."
She blinked.
Then her eyes widened.
"You too?"
He nodded once.
"Affectinal Regression Syndrome."
She laughed once—bitter and wet with grief.
"This is stupid."
"I know."
"We're literally dying for each other."
"Sounds romantic when you say it."
She slapped his shoulder.
Then hugged him.
Tight.
Desperate.
Real.
---
Later that night, David wrote again.
> We've only got moments.
But maybe moments are all we need.
I don't want to die without hearing her laugh again.
And if I do die... let it be on a day where her smile reached her eyes.
He folded that page.
Slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.
The next day was the summer play.
Their last performance.
And something inside him told him: this was his final act.