After the diagnosis, Ethan's world shifted in ways no one could see. He moved through their apartment like a ghost—cooking, cleaning, waiting—carrying the secret of his cancer quietly in his chest. Luna remained blissfully unaware, still chasing nights out with Maya, still treating him with distant politeness instead of love.
The camera had become his lifeline. Every night, he set it up in the bedroom, framing her gently, carefully, as she slept. He filmed her mornings too—the way her hair fell across her face, the slight furrow of her brow when she yawned, the careless hum she made while scrolling on her phone. Every movement, every sigh, every blink became a precious fragment of her he could hold onto forever.
Sometimes, she noticed.
"Ethan! Stop it!" she had yelled once, trying to push the camera away. "Why are you filming me like this?"
He had lowered the lens, hiding it behind his hand. "I… I just want to remember," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.
She didn't understand. She didn't need to. He wasn't filming for her approval. He was filming for himself, for the memory of the woman he loved more than life itself—even when she didn't love him back.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Luna's nights out became routine, almost predictable. Ethan adjusted the camera to capture every angle: the way she laughed with Maya, the way she stretched after a long night, the way she ignored him while he waited, quietly, in the background.
He documented even the small moments—the way she kicked off her shoes, the way she hummed while making coffee, the way she flipped through her phone without noticing him in the room.
It wasn't about obsession. It was about holding onto her when the end was closer than anyone could imagine.
Ethan also began filming himself occasionally, though sparingly. Short clips he would never show, speaking softly about his days, his pain, his hidden illness. He whispered into the lens that he loved her, that he stayed because loving her—even in silence—was enough.
He didn't know how long he had left. The days were counting down, silent and unstoppable. But every time he pressed "record," he felt a strange peace.
Even in loneliness. Even in rejection.
Even when love was no longer returned.
Because he knew one day, when he was gone, these recordings would tell the truth of a love Luna never saw—a love that endured, quietly, invisibly, until the very end.