The wedding happened eight days later.
Kieran moved heaven and earth to make it possible.
He pulled every remaining string—quiet favors from colleagues who'd seen the love in his eyes, a discreet nod from the chief who looked the other way after witnessing how close I truly was to the edge, and a private venue just outside the city: a small, glass-walled garden conservatory overlooking a quiet lake. No hospital smell. No beeping monitors. Just flowers, soft light, and the gentle lap of water against the shore.
It was tiny—fewer than thirty people—but every soul there mattered.
My side: the four girls who had become my sisters—Camila with Ethan's arm around her waist, both teary-eyed; Isabella clinging to Sebastian, whispering how romantic it all was; Aveline and her shy boyfriend standing close; Ayla alone but fierce, eyes shining with pride. A handful of distant cousins who'd come out of guilt or love. One elderly aunt who'd driven six hours just to see me in white.
Kieran's side: his distant sister and her husband, who flew in and cried the moment they saw me; a few uncles and aunts; colleagues like Dr. Ramirez who'd quietly covered his shifts; nurses like Mrs. Kattie Willson beaming proudly; even some college friends of his who hugged me gently and said he'd never sounded happier.
No parents for either of us. mine absent, his passed away .
But it didn't matter. This was our family.
The venue was perfect: enclosed glass walls for warmth, potted evergreens draped in soft white lights, a short path of scattered white petals leading to a simple arch of greenery and lilies. A soft acoustic guitar played low—Liam's playlist, a quiet gift from the girls.
I wore white.
Not a heavy gown—something light, flowing silk with long sleeves to hide the bruises from needles and the thinness of my arms. But even that couldn't hide how skeletal I'd become: bony shoulders, collarbones sharp under skin, wrists like twigs. My face was pale, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. I looked in the mirror that morning—Camila doing my makeup with trembling hands, Isabella pinning flowers in my hair—and felt a sob rise.
"I look awful," I whispered, voice cracking. "I'm so boney… so sick. I'm ruining this. I'm making his wedding look bad. He deserves someone beautiful, someone healthy—"
Camila dropped the makeup brush and knelt in front of me, eyes fierce with tears. "Stop. You are beautiful. You are radiant. That dress is glowing on you because you're glowing. You're the bride. You're the love of his life."
Isabella hugged me from behind—careful, gentle. "You look like an angel, Blossom. Fragile, yes—but ethereal. He's going to lose his breath when he sees you."
Aveline fastened the necklace—silver with a tiny heart pendant—and whispered, "You're perfect. Exactly as you are."
Ayla held the mirror up again. "Look at yourself. You're stunning. And he's marrying *you*. Not some idea of perfect. You."
Kieran—already dressed in a crisp white suit (tailored perfectly, full tie in pale silver, sleeves buttoned, collar sharp)—walked in at that moment. He stopped dead in the doorway.
His breath caught audibly.
He crossed the room—slow, reverent—and dropped to one knee in front of my chair.
"You…" His voice broke. Tears welled instantly. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I shook my head—tears falling. "I'm so thin… so sick… I don't look like a bride. I look like—"
"You look like my wife," he said fiercely, cupping my face. "You look like the woman I love. Every line, every bruise, every breath you take—you're perfect. You're mine ."
He kissed my lips —soft, trembling—then stood and lifted me from the chair into his arms—bridal style, effortless, careful. I rested my head against his shoulder, cannula secure, oxygen tank strapped discreetly to the chair he'd wheel behind us.
The girls followed—crying, smiling, holding hands.
Kieran carried me the short distance down the petal path—strong arms never faltering, never complaining about my weight (or lack of it). He held me the entire ceremony—never setting me down, never letting go. My legs draped over his arm, head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
The officiant spoke simple words—love, commitment, presence in the face of time's brevity.
Kieran went first—still holding me, voice low and steady despite the tears in his eyes.
"I, Kieran Voss, take you, Blossom Silverstone, to be my wife. In sickness and in health—especially in sickness. In joy and in sorrow. For as many days as we're given. I promise to love you fiercely, to hold you gently, to fight for every breath you take. I promise to be yours—completely, irrevocably—until the last moment and beyond. You are my heart. My reason. My everything. I love you. Always."
His voice cracked on the last word. Tears streamed freely. He didn't wipe them away.
Then me—voice barely a whisper, trembling in his arms.
"I, Blossom Voss… take you, Kieran, to be my husband. In weakness and in strength. In fear and in hope. For whatever time I have left. I promise to love you with everything I am, even when my body fails. I promise to trust you, to let you hold me, to let you love me until I can't anymore. You gave me life when I thought I had none left. You gave me forever—even if it's only days. I love you. More than I know how to say."
The officiant smiled—gentle, tearful.
"Then by the power vested in me… I pronounce you husband and wife."
Kieran didn't wait.
Still holding me in his arms—bridal style—he leaned down and kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Desperate. Full of every unspoken promise, every tear, every heartbeat we'd stolen together. I kissed him back—weak but fierce—fingers clutching his white jacket, tasting salt and love and goodbye and hello all at once.
The small crowd erupted—cheers, sobs, clapping. The girls were crying openly now—Camila hugging Ethan, Isabella clinging to Sebastian, Aveline wiping her eyes, Ayla laughing through tears.
When we parted—foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air—Kieran whispered against my lips:
"Mrs. Voss."
I laughed—soft, broken, joyful.
"Dr. Voss," I whispered back. "My husband."
He kissed me again—gentler this time—and carried me to the cushioned bench near the windows, never once setting me down. The girls swarmed—hugging us both, laughing and crying and kissing my cheeks.
We didn't have a big reception—just quiet moments in the conservatory: cake the girls had made themselves, tea, soft music, people coming up one by one to hug me, to tell me they loved me, to say goodbye without saying goodbye.
Kieran held me the entire time—sitting with me in his lap on the bench, arms around me like he could shield me from time itself. Every few minutes he'd kiss my temple, my hair, my knuckles—whispering "I love you, wife" like he couldn't believe it was real.
I rested my head against his shoulder—watching the lake reflect the fading light—and smiled through tears.
"I'm your wife," I whispered.
He pressed his lips to my hair.
"And I'm yours," he said. "Forever."
And for those few golden hours—surrounded by love, by light, by people who refused to let me go—I believed it.
Forever had already begun.
Even if it was only for a little while.