It started as a dull pain in his side—a small, nagging ache he tried to ignore.
He told himself it was fatigue, stress, maybe even something he ate wrong. But over the past few weeks, it had grown sharper, harder to dismiss. Cooking, walking, even sitting became reminders that something inside him was wrong.
Ethan finally went to the hospital alone. The streets of Manila were wet from a recent rain, neon lights reflecting on puddles, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, replaying memories of Luna—her laughter, her late-night absences, the way she curled up on the bed with no idea he had been watching over her for months.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as nurses passed by, moving efficiently, unaware of the storm building inside him. When Dr. Adrian Cole, his oncologist, finally spoke, Ethan listened quietly, gripping the edge of the chair, his knuckles white.
"Mr. Reyes," Dr. Cole said softly, "the tests confirm it. You have pancreatic cancer. It's advanced. Stage IV. I'm very sorry."
Ethan's stomach twisted, but he didn't cry. He didn't scream. He nodded, swallowing hard. "How… how long?"
"It's aggressive," the doctor said, avoiding eye contact. "We can provide treatment to ease symptoms and maybe extend life a little. But time is limited. Months, at best."
Ethan absorbed the words like a silent wave crashing over him. Months. That's all the time he had left.
He thought of Luna. Of her laughing, of her refusing him, of the empty apartment nights he spent waiting for her. He thought of all the times he had loved her without receiving even a fraction in return.
He made a choice then—one that would haunt him and define the rest of their story.
He would not tell her.
He would not let her see him weak, dying, vulnerable. She had enough in her life, enough freedom, enough distractions. He would bear this burden alone. He would continue to cook for her, to wait for her, to love her—quietly, secretly, invisibly.
And he would start capturing her on camera more deliberately. Not because he wanted control, not because he needed proof, but because these small, fleeting moments—her yawns, her stretches, her careless laughter—would become the only thing he could cling to.
That night, back at their apartment, he set up the camera again. He pressed record and watched her sleep, unaware, beautiful in her careless, frustrating, endearing way. He filmed the quiet intimacy of her life—the moments she ignored, the nights she didn't care to share with him.
For Ethan, this was no longer about obsession. It was about memory. Preservation. Love.
He had no idea how many days, weeks, or months remained. But he knew that every frame he captured would be a testament to a love he had kept alive—even when it wasn't returned.