Dear Diary,
He said it in his sleep.
Soft.
Barely audible.
But real.
"Don't cry if I leave."
Six words.
Six syllables that split my heart into something unrecognizable.
I didn't move.
I didn't speak.
I just lay there in the dark, holding him while the words echoed inside me louder than any scream could.
Because I knew — he meant them.
And now, I don't know how to pretend anymore.
1:43 PM
The fever broke sometime in the early morning.
He was still warm, still trembling, but not burning like he was two days ago.
I'd fallen asleep sitting upright, back against the headboard, with his body curled into mine like a child — limbs too thin, breath too quiet.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight was bleeding through the curtains in soft, reluctant strokes.
I didn't speak.
I was afraid to.
Like if I said anything too loud, he'd vanish.
2:18 PM
He stirred an hour later.
Blinking slowly.
He looked up at me like he wasn't sure where he was.
Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth tugged upward.
"You stayed," he whispered.
"Of course I did."
"You always stay."
"I always will."
He reached up, brushed his fingers against my chin.
"You're too good."
"I'm just… here."
"That's what I mean."
I kissed the top of his head, let my lips linger there.
"I'll make you tea," I said.
He nodded, eyes already closing again.
As if even that little moment had drained what little strength he had left.
2:54 PM
The kettle screamed louder than I expected.
Everything feels louder these days.
Even silence.
Even the soft steps of my feet on his apartment floor — like grief tapping its fingers against the wood.
I made tea, carried it back, but he was asleep again.
So I sat beside him.
Watched him breathe.
Counted every rise and fall like a prayer.
4:07 PM
He woke again around four.
This time, he tried to sit up.
His body shook.
I rushed to hold him steady, and he whispered, "I hate this."
"I know."
"I'm so tired of needing help."
"I'm not tired of giving it."
He closed his eyes again.
Shaking.
Fighting something invisible.
He reached for my hand.
Held it tighter than usual.
Like he was scared of floating away.
4:52 PM
We talked a little while he sipped his tea.
His voice was hoarse.
His eyes, still dull.
But there was a flicker of warmth when I asked about the book on his nightstand — an old poetry collection he used to love.
He smiled faintly. "Remember that poem about holding light in the dark?"
"I do."
He looked down at the cup in his hand. "You're the light."
My throat closed.
I didn't know what to say.
So I said nothing.
And that was enough.
6:33 PM
He fell asleep again just before dinner.
I lay beside him.
Listened to his breathing.
Watched the shadows dance across his cheekbones.
I tried to stay awake.
Tried not to blink too long, afraid he'd slip away between seconds.
But my body betrayed me.
And I drifted.
8:10 PM
I don't know what woke me.
A noise, maybe.
Or maybe just his voice.
Soft.
Strained.
So quiet it felt like it came from inside my own chest.
"Don't cry if I leave."
I froze.
Eyes wide in the dark.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
He was still asleep.
Still breathing.
But his lips had formed the words.
As if they were rehearsed.
As if they were already waiting inside him, ready for the moment when I wouldn't hear them — but I did.
And something in me broke.
8:17 PM
I didn't wake him.
I didn't whisper his name.
I just held him tighter, tears soaking into his shirt.
Because how do you respond to a sentence like that?
How do you argue with someone who's already halfway through their goodbye?
9:02 PM
He's still sleeping.
Still tucked against me like I'm the last warm thing in the world.
And maybe I am.
But those words…
They won't stop repeating in my head.
Don't cry if I leave.
As if that's something I can promise.
As if I could watch the love of my life slip through my fingers without falling apart.
I wanted to shake him awake.
Tell him I will cry.
That I'll shatter.
That I'll never be whole again.
But instead, I whispered:
"I'll cry. But I'll still love you."
10:11 PM
I haven't moved in hours.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside.
I can't stop crying.
Not sobbing.
Not loud.
Just tears, steady and constant, like my heart has sprung a leak and can't be sealed.
Because now it's real.
Because now it's said.
Because even though he didn't say it to my face, he said it to the dark, and that's enough.
It's not a maybe anymore.
It's not a question.
He's preparing me.
He thinks he's leaving.
And I don't know how to live with that.
10:46 PM
I thought love would be enough.
I thought if I loved him hard enough, I could keep him here.
That my arms would be a lighthouse.
That my kiss would anchor him.
But the truth is, love can't stop sickness.
It can't rebuild a failing body.
It can't rewrite bloodwork or silence the ache in his bones.
All it can do is sit beside him.
Hold him when he shakes.
Whisper, "I'm here," when the fear gets too loud.
And cry, even when he asks you not to.
11:29 PM
I wrote him another letter tonight.
I won't read it to him.
But maybe one day… if he needs to hear it… he'll find it.
"Dear Jung-Kyo,
I heard you.
I heard what you said while you were sleeping.
I know you don't want me to cry.
But I will.
Not because I'm weak.
But because loving you has changed the shape of me.
You filled a space I didn't know was hollow.
And if you leave, that space doesn't just close.
It echoes.
You're not a page in my story.
You are the ink.
The heartbeat.
The pause between breaths.
So yes, I will cry.
But I'll also remember.
Every quiet laugh.
Every hand touch.
Every slow, aching kiss that told me I was home.
And if you leave —
I'll keep loving you.
In memory.
In the wind.
In the smell of tea.
In the light that still lingers on your pillow.
– Mi-Chan"
12:01 AM
A new day has begun.
He's still asleep beside me.
Still breathing.
For now.
And I'll take that.
Because as long as he breathes, I'll stay.
Even if the words in the dark are already telling me how this ends.
Even if he says, "Don't cry."
I'll cry.
But I'll stay.
– Mi-Chan