Chapter One : Three months to live
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hartwell." The doctor leaned forward slightly, his expression full of regret.
"If there were other options, I would tell you. But at this stage. . ."
A small pause.
"We are looking at roughly three months."
Kyara's face went pale at those words.
Three months. . .?
The words echoed in her head, hollow and distant, like the voice was echoing from a far away place.
Kyara stared at the paper in her hands. Her name printed clearly at the top.
Kyara Hartwell.
Diagnosis.
Terminal.
Three months.
Kyara's fingers tightened around the sheet, crumpling it slightly. She should have cried. She should have questioned why her life turned out this way. She should have done something dramatic to express her rage. But she didn't.
Instead, she calmly nodded.
"Okay," she said quietly, as if he had just spoken about the weather.
The doctor hesitated, then softened his tone. "Do you have someone you'd like to call? Your husband, perhaps?"
Ah!
My husband
.
Casper Hartwell.
For a second, Kyara almost burst out laughing. "I'll call him." She replied.
But as the words left her, she knew she wouldn't.
Because, what use is calling someone that wouldn't pick up anyways?
. . .
Kyara didn't remember how she left the doctor's office. She didn't remember the handshake, or the sympathetic look in the doctor's eyes, a look she now realized meant "terminal" in medical parlance.
The next clear moment she had was standing in the corridor, her hand resting on the smooth, cold laminate of a closed door.
Everything was too loud.
A cleaning cart rattled nearby, the squeak of its wheels vibrating right through her chest. A nurse passed by, her shoes making a clack-hiss sound against the polished linoleum, talking on a phone about someone named Mark. But how can she care about Mark?
The white walls of the hospital were blinding and endless, a sterile, artificial white that seemed to suck all the color out of her own clothes, her skin, her life. She felt an urge to run, to scream, but her body felt disconnected, operating on autopilot. She walked, her every step heavy, her eyes fixed on the neon "EXIT" sign at the end of the hall.
Three months.
She reached the elevator, her reflection in the stainless steel doors momentarily stopping her.
It was a stranger's face. The eyes staring back at her were too wide, the skin too pale, it was so unfamiliar.
Ding!
Stepping out of the elevator, Kyara kept her gaze fixed downward. She focused on the toe of her shoes, lifting one foot then the other, walking blindly toward the bright rectangle of the exit door.
The air smelled of antiseptic and artificial lavender, a scent she knew she would hate for the rest of her life.
She reached the automatic doors. They slid open, letting in a gust of humid afternoon air. The transition from the artificial, cold quiet to the muffled roar of the hospital's parking lot struck her like a blow. She made it to her car, her breath coming in shallow, shuddering gaps. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the driver's side window, unable to bring herself to get in. She was parked under a tree, and a small, yellow leaf had settled on her windshield, perfectly still amidst the chaos in her mind.
Kyara reached for her phone and swiped it open. Her thumb hovered over his contact for a second longer than necessary.
Then she pressed call.
Ring.
Her eyes stayed on the leaf.
Ring.
Her grip tightened.
Ring.
No answer. She ended the call, stared at the screen for a moment, and called again.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Still nothing.
A faint sound escaped her throat. . . something between a breath and a laugh.
Of course.
By the fifth call, she didn't expect anything anymore.
By the sixth. . . she almost hoped he wouldn't pick up.
But on the seventh. . . the line clicked.
"Kyara." His voice came through, low, distracted. Background noise filtered in. . . cutlery, soft conversation, the clink of glass.
Luncheon.
Of course he was at an event.
"Make it quick," Casper Hartwell added. "I'm in the middle of something."
Kyara closed her eyes for a second.
Then opened them again.
"I went to the hospital today," she said.
A pause.
"Mm."
That was all.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"The doctor said. . ."
"Kyara."
He cut her off, sharper this time. "I don't have time for this right now."
She felt her heart freeze for a moment, not breaking at least not yet.
"It's important," she tried again, quieter now.
"I have a meeting after this," Casper replied, impatience slipping into his tone. "If it's not urgent, we'll talk later."
Not urgent.
Kyara's lips parted. Then closed again.
The words. . . I'm dying. . .. sat right there, at the edge of her tongue, but they didn't come out.
Instead
"I understand," she said.
"Good."
The line went dead.
Kyara stared at her reflection in the darkened screen.
Same face, same calm expression. The same woman who had spent years waiting for a man who never really spared her a look.
Three months.
Her fingers moved slowly… almost absentmindedly… to her left hand. Her wedding ring caught the light.
Simple, elegant gold band, but now, it felt heavy as if millions of stones were weighing down on her.
She remembered the day he had slipped it on her finger.
The silence between them. The absence of warmth. Even then… she had known. Just not enough to walk away.
Now, carefully. . . She slid it off.
The weight disappeared instantly.
Her hand felt… lighter. Freer.
Kyara let out a slow breath she didn't realize she had been holding.
For the first time in years, her chest didn't feel tight.
Three months.
If that was all she had left… then what was she still holding onto?
Her phone buzzed suddenly in her hand.
A message.
From Casper. "Don't forget to prepare the documents on my desk before you sleep."
Kyara stared at the words. Read them once. Twice.
Then
She smiled. Not softly. Not sadly. But differently, as if the chains holding her had been removed.
And without replying. . .
She turned her gaze back at the leaf, the only thing that felt real. She stopped trying to hold it together. The hot tears finally came, blurring her vision, as the sheer, insurmountable weight of the next three months crashed over her in the quiet of her car.