Regret was a strange thing.
It never screamed. It didn't beg.
It simply sat beside you in silence and asked one question:
What did you do with the life you were given?
Most people realized the answer too late.
By the time he understood it, he was already dying.
The man lying on the hospital bed was in his early thirties, yet his body looked far older—thin arms, pale skin, eyes dulled by years of exhaustion rather than illness alone. Machines hummed around him, steady and indifferent, keeping track of a life that no longer fought back.
He had no wife.
No children.
No friends standing by his side.
Instead, sharp voices echoed just outside the thin hospital curtain.
"Legally, the savings should go to us."
"He has no will, this is obvious."
"After everything our daughter did for him—"
His in-laws.
They didn't look at him. Not really.
To them, he was already gone—reduced to numbers on a bank statement and a signature waiting to be claimed.
He wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry.
All that money… and this was how it ended.
At twenty-one, his life had split cleanly in two.
One moment, he had a family—loud, imperfect, alive.
The next, an accident took them all.
He survived.
And that survival became his punishment.
Guilt clung to him like a second skin. He worked endlessly, not because he dreamed of success, but because stopping meant thinking. Promotions came and went, but ambition never followed. Every raise, every bonus, went into savings—untouched, unused.
Money became a shield.
A way to prove he was doing something.
A way to drown out the voice that whispered he had failed them.
He told himself he would live later.
After he was stable.
After he felt worthy.
Later never came.
He had dreams once.
Standing under bright lights.
Applause filling the air.
Stories that moved people's hearts.
But every time opportunity appeared, hesitation dragged him back.
I'm not good enough.
It's too late.
Others deserve it more.
An inferiority complex disguised as realism.
Fear dressed up as responsibility.
So he stayed where he was—safe, invisible, unchanged.
Years passed like pages never turned.
The arguing voices cut off abruptly when the curtain was pulled back.
"Everyone, please step outside."
The doctor's tone was calm, firm—practiced. He didn't raise his voice, yet no one dared argue. Chairs scraped against the floor. Shoes shuffled. One by one, the in-laws filed out, their expressions tight with frustration, not concern.
The curtain fell back into place.
For the first time that day, the room was quiet.
The doctor stepped closer to the bed and checked the monitors. The steady beeping had slowed, uneven now. He glanced at the chart, then at the man lying before him.
"You're still conscious," the doctor said softly. "That's good."
The man forced his eyes open. Each breath felt heavier than the last.
"There's… one thing we need to ask," the doctor continued after a brief pause. "You don't have a written will."
Of course I don't, he thought.
The doctor hesitated, then spoke carefully. "If you have any final wishes regarding your assets… now would be the time."
The question lingered in the air.
Inheritance.
Money.
The thing they had been fighting over like vultures.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling. White. Blank. Empty—much like the life he had lived.
He thought of the nights he worked overtime for no reason other than exhaustion.
The balance in his bank account growing larger while his world grew smaller.
The dreams he never chased because he was too afraid to be seen failing.
All that money… and not a single memory worth keeping.
His lips parted.
"…Donate it."
The doctor blinked. "Pardon?"
"Everything," he said, voice weak but steady. "All of it."
There was a pause—this time from the doctor.
"Is there a specific recipient?" he asked gently.
The man swallowed. His chest ached—not from pain, but from something closer to regret.
"A cancer foundation," he said after a moment. "One that actually helps patients. Research. Treatment. Anything."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I already wasted my chance," he whispered. "If it can give someone else more time… then at least it won't be meaningless."
Silence filled the room again.
The doctor studied him for a long moment—not as a patient, but as a person.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I'll make sure it's done properly," the doctor said. "Thank you for telling me."
He turned and walked toward the curtain.
Before leaving, he stopped.
"…You made a good choice."
The curtain slid shut.
The man lay there alone, the steady hum of the machines fading into the background.
For the first time in years—
His chest felt light.
The voices outside grew louder.
They were arguing over a life he hadn't truly lived.
His vision blurred, not from tears, but from exhaustion.
"If… I had just tried…" he whispered, though no one listened.
If he had taken a risk.
If he had chased something for himself.
If he had stopped living only to atone.
His heart monitor faltered.
As darkness closed in, a single thought surfaced—clearer than any regret before it:
If I had another life… I wouldn't hesitate.
And then—
Everything went silent.