The night outside stretched endless, the rain a curtain of cold despair masking the city's restless heartbeat. Inside the small hospital room, the harsh fluorescent light flickered, casting long, jittery shadows that danced on the cracked walls like ghosts of a forgotten past. Maya lay back against the stiff pillow, the thin sheet tangled around her like the chains of her fate, but her eyes never left Liam.
He stood near the window, gazing out at the storm with a hollow expression. His silhouette was rigid, outlined by the occasional flash of lightning, every muscle taut as if bracing for impact — or escape.
"Why did you leave?" Maya's voice was barely a whisper, fragile but carrying the weight of years.
Liam's gaze snapped to hers, his blue eyes haunted, sharp as shattered glass. "I thought I was protecting you. From me."
Her heart ached, the old wounds raw beneath the surface. "You ran from us. From me."
He swallowed hard, the ghost of a smile flickering and dying on his lips. "I thought if I stayed, I'd only destroy you."
A long silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of rain hammering the window and the faint hum of machines. Then, almost reluctantly, Liam stepped closer, settling into the chair beside her bed, the old leather creaking beneath his weight.
"I was wrong," he said quietly. "I should've fought harder. Stayed. But the world we live in... it's not kind to people like us."
Maya's brows knit together. "People like us?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Two broken people with a past full of scars and a future uncertain. A future the doctors say might not even exist."
She turned her head toward the window, watching a jagged bolt of lightning split the night sky. "A hundred days," she whispered. "That's all I have."
Liam's fingers brushed hers lightly — tentative, searching. Electricity sparked between their skin, a painful reminder of what they once had and what might still be possible.
"Hundred days to pretend," he said. "To the world, we're a couple. To keep the insurance, the treatment, the hope alive."
Maya's breath hitched. "Pretend?"
"Pretend," he echoed, voice rough with pain. "But maybe, somewhere in the pretending, we find something real."
Her eyes locked with his — a fierce storm of defiance, longing, and fragile hope.
"Can love survive a contract?" she asked, the question hanging like a challenge.
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Maybe it can. Maybe it has to."
The next morning dawned cold and gray, the storm's fury giving way to a brittle, uneasy calm. The city outside buzzed with indifferent life, but inside the hospital, time felt suspended — a fragile bubble where every second carried the weight of a lifetime.
Maya's world had shrunk to the sterile walls, the beeping monitors, and Liam's hesitant presence beside her. They moved through the day in awkward rhythms, navigating old wounds and new realities, the space between them filled with unsaid words and heavy glances.
At one point, Liam pulled out the thick contract from his jacket — crisp, official, and terrifying in its finality. They sat together on the hospital bed, reading clause after clause, their voices low and tight with tension.
"Joint responsibility," Liam read aloud. "Shared living arrangements. No third-party interference."
Maya's fingers trembled as she traced the lines, the implications sinking deep. This was more than a contract. It was a promise — or a prison.
She looked up, catching Liam's gaze. "We're trapped, aren't we?"
He nodded slowly. "Trapped together. But maybe... trapped isn't the worst thing."
Their hands met again, fingers intertwining, fragile lifelines in a sea of uncertainty.
That night, as the city lights flickered through the rain-streaked window, Maya lay awake, heart pounding in the suffocating silence. Memories of better times haunted her — the warmth of Liam's laugh, the softness of stolen kisses beneath moonlit skies, the way his touch once promised forever.
But now, forever felt like a luxury beyond reach.
She turned to Liam, who was sitting in the corner chair, staring blankly at the glowing cityscape.
"Do you think we can really do this?" she asked quietly. "Fake it for a hundred days?"
He didn't answer at first, eyes distant. Then he whispered, "I don't know. But I want to try."
Their eyes met, a silent vow passing between them — a fragile thread weaving hope through the storm.
Outside, the wind howled like a mourning wolf, but inside, beneath the weight of shadows and promises, a spark of something fierce and fragile began to flicker.
The countdown was far from over.