The report arrived that morning  neat, sealed, and cruel.

My name printed across it in black ink, followed by words that froze my heart: “Terminal  estimated survival, seven days.”

Exactly seven days.

The same day we were supposed to celebrate our **third wedding anniversary**.

I stared at the paper, at the letters that now dictated my fate, and all I could think of was him "Ethan". My husband. The man who once swore that forever meant something.

That morning, I sat across from him at the dining table, the silence between us louder than the ticking clock.

 He scrolled through his phone, answering messages that I already knew weren’t about work.

Her name "Sophie". His secretary.
I had seen the messages, the late-night calls, the way his voice softened when he said her name. 

But every time I confronted him, he smiled that calm, guilty smile.
“She’s just my secretary,” he’d say. “You’re imagining things.”

Today, I wanted to tell him about "the report". About how my time was running out.
But I couldn’t.
Not yet.

I wanted to see if he would remember.
Our anniversary. Our promise. The vows he said beneath the rain three years ago when we thought love could survive anything.

My fingers tapped the table, a rhythm of impatience and pain. 

He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice the tears I was hiding behind my coffee cup.

Maybe love dies before people do.
Maybe that’s what my report was truly trying to tell me.

Ethan my husband, he was dressed in his charcoal suit,  his tie a perfect Windsor knotthe same routine, the same perfection that usedto make me proud. Now it only reminded me of how far apart we'd grown 


I sat there, spoon tracing circles in my untouched coffee, listening to the clink of his silver spoon against porcelain.


"Are you going somewhere important?" I asked, my voice lighter than the ache in my chest.


He nodded, scrolling through his phone. "Meeting with the board. Then lunch with a client."


I smiled faintly, pretending I didn't notice how quickly his thumb hovered over a message before the screen went dark.


 I wanted to ask him "Do you know what day it is?"


But I didn't. I wanted to see if he would remember without me saying a word.


Three years since that stormy afternoon when he'd run through the rain just to kneel before me in a soaked suit, promising me a forever I thought was real.


I looked at the envelope on the counter the report sealed again, as if pretending it wasn't there could stop the truth from breathing down my neck.


"I might be home late tonight," he said. "Don't wait up."


The words cut deeper than the diagnosis.


I swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. "Alright."


He leaned down and kissed my cheek a habit more than affection. I closed my eyes, trying to memorize the warmth, the faint scent of his cologne.


When the door clicked shut behind him, the silence rushed in, heavy and hollow.


I turned to the window, watching his car disappear down the street.


My heart whispered what my mouth couldn't say "Happy anniversary, Ethan"


A tear rolled down my cheek as I unfolded the report once more, tracing the date that would soon mark both an ending and a beginning.


But before then… I wanted to remember what it felt like to be loved.


Even if it was by a man who already forgot me.


Chapter 1 - The report.