A year had passed since Ethan and Luna moved in together.
Back then, mornings were bright, laughter spilling from the small apartment in Quezon City. Now, silence had taken over.
Luna changed slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. She still smiled, still called his name, but the warmth was gone. Nights out became longer, louder. Maya was always by her side—her constant companion in glittered dresses and flashing lights. Ethan would wait. Always wait. He cooked dinner she never ate. He left notes on the table reminding her to eat, to rest, to take care of herself. She didn't notice. Or maybe she just didn't care.
"Luna… can we talk?" he asked one morning, watching her scroll through her phone while barely touching the scrambled eggs he had prepared.
She glanced at him, eyes heavy, expression flat. "About what?"
"About us," he said softly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I feel… you've changed. Did I do something wrong?"
Her fingers paused on the screen. For a second, he thought he saw guilt, but it was gone before he could confirm.
"No, Ethan," she said finally, brushing past him. "I'm just… tired. Can we not talk about it?"
Tired. That word would echo in his mind for months.
Soon, intimacy disappeared entirely. Nights that were once filled with whispers and gentle touches were now empty. She refused to kiss him, to hold him, to sleep beside him. She stayed because of pity—or at least that's what Ethan thought. And yet, he still loved her.
Every morning, he placed food on the table, careful to make it just right. Every night, he stayed up waiting for her to come home, even if it was already dawn and the party lights from Poblacion were fading in the distance.
He asked himself the same question every day: Why did she change? Why am I the one who loves her still?
Ethan never sought another love, never questioned his devotion openly. He held onto her as if it were a lifeline, even when it felt like she was slipping away.
Then came the first sharp pain in his side—a dull, persistent ache he tried to ignore. He brushed it off at first, telling himself it was stress or fatigue. But when it didn't go away, he finally went to the hospital.
The doctor's words hit like ice water: "Stage IV pancreatic cancer. It's aggressive. Time… is limited."
Ethan didn't cry. Not in the hospital, not in front of the doctors. He nodded, thanked them, and left.
He made a choice then. He wouldn't tell Luna. He couldn't. She didn't need another burden in her life—not from him. Instead, he started recording. Quietly. Every small moment she left behind. Every laugh, every sigh, every careless gesture while sleeping.
He held onto her memory before it was gone.
Little did Luna know, the man who still loved her more than he loved himself was already counting down his days—
and every smile, every careless laugh she shared, was a moment he refused to let fade.
Because sometimes, love is strongest not when it's returned… but when it's endured alone.