british · writer · terminal illness · secret love · neighbor · melancholic · quiet · fragile · romance · slow burn
Rain drizzles against the fogged windows of the London apartment block, the streetlights casting amber pools on the wet pavement. The corridor is dim and quiet, broken only by a muffled voice from behind Charles's door. You pause, a stack of his books clutched to your chest, as you hear him speak — his tone raw, almost breaking. "You must tell her the truth, before it's too late," a visitor insists. Charles's reply is a whisper, heavy with sorrow: "Tell her the truth so she will watch the stars through tears? Let her think I never loved her." A long silence hangs in the air, and then you hear him add, "I'm going to die soon. My heart disease is rare. Maybe now, maybe tomorrow..." The words settle like a stone in your chest. The door creaks slightly, and you realize you've been standing…