The hum of the waiting room was soft but unbearable.Printers clicking, footsteps on tile, the low murmur of coworkers trading gossip by the coffee machine. The world here still made sense — steady, mechanical, alive.
Clara sat perfectly still in one of the plastic chairs, hands wrapped around a paper cup she hadn't drunk from. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass wall opposite her: tired eyes, dark crescents beneath them, hair pulled into a messy knot she hadn't bothered to fix since dawn.
Outside the glass, she could see the company logo — HARLOW LOGISTICS, bold and cold and shining. Ethan's name used to belong under that. Head of Operations. He'd been so proud of that title.
Now, he could barely hold a spoon.
Clara closed her eyes, and the sound of the office faded away. The memories came rushing in before she could stop them.
It wasn't that long ago — just months, really — but it felt like a lifetime.She saw him in their old apartment, half-dressed, dancing to an old Rolling Stones record at seven in the morning. He was using a spatula as a microphone, burning the eggs but not caring.
"Ethan!" she had laughed, grabbing the pan before it smoked. "You're going to set off the fire alarm again."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take, Mrs. Vale," he'd said, grinning, spinning her by the wrist until her robe came untied and her laughter turned breathless.
They'd danced there in the tiny kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, the world outside completely forgotten.
He used to hum under his breath when he was concentrating — low and tuneless, like a bee in a jar. It used to drive her crazy.She'd tease him, throw a balled-up napkin his way."Ethan Vale, if you hum that one more time, I'm filing for divorce."
And he'd grin that crooked grin of his."Then I better make it worth it."
They'd fought too, of course. Loudly. Passionately.Once, over the stupidest thing — the couch he'd ordered online that wouldn't fit through the door. She'd stood there fuming while he tried to jam it through the frame, muttering curses."Maybe if you measured it before buying it, genius!" she'd snapped.He'd stopped, looked at her, and deadpanned, "I measured. Just not… accurately."
She'd tried not to laugh. Failed miserably.By the time the couch was half inside, half out, they were both doubled over with laughter, tears in their eyes.That was how it always went. No matter how bad the fight, Ethan had this way of breaking her anger apart — one stupid joke, one ridiculous smile, and she was gone.
And then there were the quiet nights. The ones that didn't need laughter or noise.He'd read to her from whatever book he was obsessed with that week — history, finance, astronomy, didn't matter — and she'd fall asleep mid-sentence, her head in his lap.Sometimes he'd stay up, tracing circles on her arm, whispering things he never said when she was awake.
"I don't ever want to be without you," he'd murmured once, when he thought she was asleep.
She wasn't. She'd just smiled, eyes closed, memorizing the sound of it.
A tear slipped down Clara's cheek before she even realized it.The sound of her name pulled her back.
"Mrs. Vale?"
The voice came from the doorway — deep, polite, practiced. The manager of Harlow Logistics stood there, tall and uncomfortable, his tie too tight, his eyes too gentle.
She rose quickly, blinking away the blur of memory. "Yes. Sorry. I—yes."
He motioned for her to follow. The hall felt impossibly long. On the walls were photographs of company milestones — gleaming trucks, signed contracts, men in suits shaking hands. Ethan was in one of them. Smiling. Confident. A king in his own castle.
Clara slowed down when she saw it, her fingers brushing lightly over his face through the glass. It was the same smile he'd had the day they met.
The manager noticed, hesitated, then quietly said, "He made this place better, you know. Everyone loved him."
She didn't trust herself to speak. She just nodded and followed him into the office.
The blinds were half open, letting in a pale slice of light that fell across the desk — across the envelope waiting there.
"Please, sit," he said gently.
She did.
"Clara… I wish I were calling you in for a different reason." He sighed, folding his hands. "Ethan's role here has been… under review since his diagnosis. The board decided this morning to make it official."
Her heart didn't drop. It didn't need to. It was already somewhere deep in the floor.
He pushed the envelope toward her. "We'll keep his health insurance active through the end of the month. There's a small severance package. I wish it could be more."
She stared at the paper, her reflection warped across the glossy surface. "Thank you," she said softly, the words tasting like dust.
The manager hesitated, then added, "He talked about you all the time. He said you were the reason he never quit."
That undid her. A small, sharp sob escaped before she could stop it. She pressed a hand to her mouth, closing her eyes, trying to breathe.
The manager didn't speak. He simply stood, crossed to the window, and gave her the dignity of silence.
When she finally stood, she was trembling. The envelope felt heavier than her own heartbeat.
Outside, the sun was too bright. The world kept moving — horns blaring, people laughing, a man eating a sandwich on the steps of the building.
Clara stood there, holding that envelope like it was made of glass. Her fingers trembled around it, but she didn't let go.
Because she couldn't. Because this was the last piece of Ethan's old life — and she wasn't ready to lose another part of him just yet.
So she took a breath, straightened her back, and started walking toward the hospital.Every step felt like wading through something thick and invisible.But she walked anyway.
Because if Ethan was still fighting to live, the least she could do was learn how to keep walking.
Clara left the Harlow building with the envelope pressed flat against her chest, as if holding it there could keep her heart from shattering. The sun outside was blinding, the heat unkind. Cars passed. People talked. Somewhere, a child was laughing. The sound felt foreign — like another lifetime.
By the time she reached the hospital, the lunch hour crowd had begun to thin. The smell of antiseptic and cafeteria food clung to the air — coffee, bleach, something fried. She moved through the corridors with her usual small, polite nods at the nurses who now knew her by name.
Room 407.
She slowed before the door, her hand on the glass. Inside, Ethan sat upright, the rolling bed-table in front of him. Lunch sat untouched — soup cooling, bread still wrapped. He was looking out the window, the soft afternoon light cutting across his face. The hospital gown hung loose on him now, collarbones sharp where muscle used to be. His hand twitched once against the blanket — the same restless habit he'd always had when deep in thought.
For a long second, Clara just stood there, watching him.Then she took a breath, fixed a small smile onto her face, and pushed the door open.
"Hey, you," she said lightly, her voice carrying that soft brightness she'd practiced in the mirror. "I come bearing contraband."
I turned my head at the sound of her voice. The sight of her always sent a jolt through me, a mix of profound love and a sharper, more painful guilt. I managed a small smile. "Tell me that's not another protein smoothie."
"Better. Chocolate chip cookies. Don't tell your nurse."
She set a crinkled paper bag on the tray, and the sweet, familiar smell of chocolate and brown sugar cut through the sterile hospital air. She leaned in to kiss my temple, and I felt the warm, soft press of her lips. I also felt the slight tremor in her hand as she brushed my hair back.
"You didn't eat," she said, her eyes flicking to the full tray.
I shrugged, the movement costing more energy than it should. "Wasn't hungry." It was mostly true. The nausea was a constant, low hum, and the thought of the bland soup was worse than the emptiness in my stomach.
I watched her as she started to tidy—moving the tray aside, refilling my water cup, fluffing the pillow behind my head. It was her tell. She fussed when she was trying to outrun a bad thought.
"How was it?" I asked, keeping my voice deliberately even. "Harlow."
Her hand stilled on the water pitcher. She didn't look at me. "It was fine."
"Clara."
She finally turned, and her eyes met mine. She tried to hold the smile, but I saw it—the slight tightening at the corners, the shadow in her gaze that she couldn't quite hide. I knew that look. It was the same one she'd had when she lied about liking my cooking when we first started dating.
"They let me go, didn't they?" The words were quiet, not an accusation, just a statement of the inevitable.
Her face crumpled for a fraction of a second before she wrestled it back under control. "It's… it's just temporary. They said they'll keep your insurance through the month." Her voice was too high, too tight. "And there's a severance package. We'll be fine, Ethan."
I just looked at her, at the brave, crumbling facade she was holding up for my sake, and my heart ached so badly it was a physical pain. "You don't have to pretend," I said softly.
"I'm not pretending," she insisted, her voice breaking on the last word.
"You are." I reached out, my hand trembling slightly as I brushed my thumb over the faint vertical line between her eyebrows. "You get this crease right here… every time you lie to make me feel better."
A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "Maybe I just don't want to see you worry."
"Worrying is pretty much all I have the energy for these days," I admitted, the truth feeling heavy and useless.
For a moment, the only sound was the relentless, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, counting out the seconds I was losing. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand in both of hers. Her skin was so warm, so alive, against my cold fingers. She began to rub slow, gentle circles on my knuckles, a silent anchor.
"They shouldn't have done that," she whispered, her voice thick with a anger I knew was for my benefit. "After everything you gave them."
"Clara…" I squeezed her hand, or tried to; my grip was pathetically weak. "It's not their fault. Who keeps a dying man on payroll?"
"Don't." Her voice cracked open, raw and pained. "Don't you say that like it's nothing."
I looked at her then, really looked, and saw the sheer, terrifying weight of it all in her eyes—the bills, the fear, the lonely battles. My anger at my own body, my own helplessness, melted away, replaced by a crushing wave of sorrow for her. "Hey." My voice was a rough whisper. "Come here."
She leaned forward, and I rested my forehead against hers. I could feel the warmth of her skin, the dampness of her tears. "I'm so sorry," I breathed into the small space between us. "I'm sorry you have to carry all of this. The bills, the calls, now this… I hate that all I can do is lie here while you fight every single battle for the both of us."
"You don't have to be sorry," she murmured, her breath hitching. "You're fighting the only one that matters."
I tried to smile. "You always were the brave one."
"I'm not," she confessed, her voice a shattered whisper. "I'm just pretending. If I stop for one second, I'll fall completely apart."
"Then keep pretending," I whispered back, closing my eyes. "Just… stay here while you do it."
I felt her nod, her forehead moving against mine. "Always."
We stayed like that, frozen in the quiet hum of the room. There were no more words left that could possibly help. To anyone glancing in, it would have looked like a simple, quiet moment of exhaustion.