Every tick of the clock echoed through the empty rooms like a reminder that time itself was leaving me, too.
I sat at the edge of the sofa, holding my phone staring at our wedding photo on the lock screen. We looked so young there. So sure. His hand was wrapped around mine like he would never let go.
Now I couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked at me.
I opened my messages. The doctor's number glowed at the top of the screen.
"Mrs. Evans, please confirm that you've received the report. We should discuss your options"
Options.
How many options does a dying woman really have?
I typed a reply "Yes, I've read it. I'll come in tomorrow"
Then hesitated.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted it again.
No.
Not today.
Today was supposed to be ours.
I closed my phone and walked to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made my side untouched, his side empty, sheets still cool from his absence.
I went to the closet and pulled out a white dress the one I wore on our first anniversary dinner. He'd taken me to a rooftop restaurant, and we'd danced under fairy lights and city stars. He'd whispered, "You're my forever, Elara."
Forever.
What a fragile word.
I slipped into the dress, ignoring how loose it felt around my shoulders now. Standing before the mirror, I painted my lips a soft rose shade, brushed my hair the way he used to like, and smiled a small act of rebellion against the ache in my chest.
Maybe he'd remember. Maybe he'd come home early.
Maybe love wasn't entirely dead yet.
The phone buzzed on the dresser.
My heart leapt "Ethan?"
But no.
It was "Sophie"
A message preview flashed across the screen, her name glowing like a wound:
"Don't forget tonight. Same place, 8 p.m"
My throat tightened. I stared at the message until the letters blurred. He wasn't coming home. He wasn't even pretending anymore.
The anniversary that once meant everything to us was now just another lie between them.
I sat back on the bed, clutching the report to my chest. The paper crinkled beneath my trembling fingers.
I could feel it then the weight of time pressing closer.
If I only had seven days left, I didn't want to spend them waiting for a man who had already left me in every way that mattered.
I rose, slipped on my shoes, and took one last look at our photo on the wall.
Maybe the end wasn't meant to be shared.
Maybe it was meant to be rewritten.
As I stepped out into the soft sunlight, I whispered to myself,
"If love has forgotten me, maybe I'll remember myself instead."
And with that, I walked away not from life, not yet but from the version of me that had been waiting for someone else to love her first.