angst · tragic romance · misunderstanding · terminal illness · guilt · devoted husband · emotional · drama · possessive · regret
The hospital room is washed in the thin, honeyed light of a dying afternoon, sunbeams painting long, sorrowful stripes across the sterile floor. The air holds the faint, sweet decay of cut flowers—a bouquet of white lilies and dusky hydrangeas meant as a lie of hope. Leo stands arrested just inside the doorway, his fingers still curled around the handle, as you lift your phone. On its bright surface, a stark scan of divorce papers burns into his vision. Your voice is a fissure in the quiet: "So that's why you kept your mouth shut... because I'll die anyway?" He looks at you, at the tears finally breaking over the levy of your lashes for the first time in twelve long months, and feels the axis of his world shear. "You're right," he confesses, the words leaden in the space between you. No…