The sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the apartment. The smell of rice and sinangag lingered in the kitchen, a silent reminder that Ethan had spent hours preparing breakfast she would never touch.
Luna was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in a careless heap, her hair falling over her face. Ethan watched her quietly from the kitchen doorway, hands trembling slightly as he held the plate. He wanted to call her, to shake her gently awake, but he didn't.
She didn't notice him. She never did.
Ethan placed the food carefully on the table, the eggs still warm, the tilapia perfectly crispy. He adjusted the camera on the shelf to capture her peaceful sleep, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the subtle movements she made without knowing he was watching.
Every blink, every sigh, every stretch was recorded, preserved, a memory he could hold onto when she was gone.
Hours passed. Luna stirred, finally waking, yawning and stretching as if the apartment didn't exist. She barely glanced at him, scrolling through her phone, brushing her hair from her face.
"Morning," Ethan said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Mm," she mumbled, still absorbed in her messages.
She didn't eat the breakfast he had made. She didn't ask about him. She didn't notice the quiet ache in his eyes, the fatigue in his body, the secret weight he carried inside.
Ethan forced a smile and retreated to the living room, sitting on the couch with his hands on his knees. He felt the first sharp pang of guilt for the day. He had always known she might never appreciate his love. He had always known she might never return it. But it still hurt, seeing her live so carelessly, so unconcerned, while he fought a battle she didn't even know existed.
He opened the camera, checking the footage from the night before. There she was, unaware, laughing in her sleep at something he couldn't hear, turning over, curling her fingers against the sheets.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it quickly. She could never see him like this. She would never know that the man who stayed behind, who cooked, who loved, was slowly dying inside.
Loving her had become a silent war—a fight waged not for her love, but for the memory of her, for the fragments of her life he could capture while she was unaware.
Because someday, that memory would be all he had left.
And Ethan knew, deep in his bones, that day was coming sooner than he wanted to admit.