The doctors said she might not last the night.
Harvey didn't sleep. Didn't speak.
He just stayed—watching her breathe, holding her hand, afraid to blink.
When the sky outside began to pale, he gently lifted her into the wheelchair, wrapping her in blankets. The nurses didn't stop him.
Everyone knew this was goodbye.
---
On the rooftop, the city yawned beneath them. Soft clouds drifted. The first blush of dawn crept over the horizon.
Leyah stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open—barely.
"Is it… time?" she whispered.
Harvey nodded, kneeling beside her. "The sun's coming."
She smiled, lips pale.
"I made it," she murmured.
Then, weaker: "Harvey…"
He leaned closer. "I'm here."
Her hand twitched toward the notebook in his jacket. He pulled it out, opened to the last page.
10. Watch the sunrise with someone I love.
She raised her fingers—but they didn't reach.
Her chest rose.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Still.
---
The sun broke the edge of the sky.
Light spilled across the rooftop.
And Harvey, with trembling hands, picked up the pen.
He crossed off the last item.
10. Watch the sunrise with someone I love.
—She made it. And I loved her until the last light.
---
He didn't cry then.
Not until he opened the back cover of the notebook—and saw one final page.
Written in her handwriting. Faint. Slanted.
> If you're reading this, I'm gone.
But don't cry. Not yet.
I didn't finish this list to fight death. I made it so I could live.
And I lived, Harvey.
Because of you.
My last wish wasn't on the list.
It was this:
Let him know I loved him before I remembered him—and that I'll find him again, someday, somewhere, when the sky is pink and full of light.
Wait for me.
Love, Leyah.
---
One Year Later
Harvey sat alone on the rooftop.
The notebook rested in his lap, weathered and worn.
A new page had been added.
11. Remember her with every sunrise.
—I haven't missed one yet.
The sun rose—bright and gold, just as it had before.
And Harvey whispered, "I'm still here."