Dear Diary,
He told me about the tests today.
Not everything.
Not the name.
Not the numbers.
But enough.
Enough to confirm the ache in my chest wasn't paranoia.
It was truth.
It's been truth for weeks.
He's been getting bloodwork done.
More than once.
He didn't say why.
Didn't say what they were looking for.
But his hands trembled when he spoke.
And he wouldn't meet my eyes.
And that's how I knew…
We're close now.
To the word he won't say.
To the answer I don't want.
To the moment everything breaks.
1:02 PM
I showed up with fresh flowers.
Sunflowers.
The kind that lean toward the light.
I wanted his apartment to feel less like waiting.
Less like a room full of shadows.
He smiled when he saw them.
Didn't say much.
Just put them in a jar by the window, hands shaking a little too much.
Then he sat on the couch.
Same place.
Same blanket draped over his knees.
Same distance in his eyes.
And I sat beside him.
Wanting to hold him and scream at him all at once.
2:17 PM
We didn't speak for a long time.
Just sat.
Listened to the soft sound of the clock ticking.
Each second a reminder that time is not ours.
Eventually, I asked, "Do you want to talk?"
He looked over at me.
Then back down at his hands.
"I had another test yesterday."
I held my breath.
"Blood again."
I didn't speak.
I just waited.
"They're… trying to rule things out."
I nodded.
"What things?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
He rubbed his palm against his thigh.
Like he could scrub the fear away.
Then finally, "They're not sure. Something's… not balancing right."
My throat tightened.
"But they'll know soon?" I whispered.
He nodded once.
Soft. Slow.
"They said it might take a few days."
"And then?"
Another silence.
"I don't know."
3:08 PM
We sat in that space.
Not talking.
Not moving.
Just breathing together.
And I realized something: breathing is the saddest sound in the world when you're listening for someone else to stop.
When every inhale feels like it might be the last before a sentence you can't unhear.
He didn't cry.
But his voice broke when he said, "I didn't want to scare you."
"You didn't," I said.
"You're crying."
"I'm not scared of you," I whispered. "I'm scared for you."
He looked at me then.
Eyes full of something heavy.
"I just wanted more time."
"You still have it."
He didn't answer that.
4:12 PM
He laid his head on my lap.
Like a child.
Like someone who wanted to be held but didn't know how to ask.
I stroked his hair.
Watched the way his eyes flickered closed.
Watched the way his chest rose.
And fell.
And I counted.
Because counting keeps the panic at bay.
5:04 PM
When he woke again, I kissed his temple.
And said, "You don't have to do this alone."
"I know," he said.
"But you still are."
He didn't argue.
He just nodded.
That nod — that quiet acknowledgment — was almost worse than a lie.
6:01 PM
I asked him if he wanted to watch something.
A movie.
Something light.
He nodded, eyes tired.
I put something on.
Some silly comedy we'd seen before.
But neither of us laughed.
Because sometimes, even laughter feels too loud when your world is falling apart in silence.
7:20 PM
He fell asleep against my shoulder again.
I stayed still.
Afraid to move.
Afraid to wake him.
Afraid of what he might say next time.
And in that stillness, I remembered the words he whispered two nights ago.
Don't cry if I leave.
And I realized — he's not asking me not to cry.
He's preparing me.
One quiet sentence at a time.
One pause.
One sigh.
One "I'm fine" that means the opposite.
He's teaching me how to live without him.
And I don't want to learn.
8:16 PM
He stirred.
Looked up at me.
And said, "I don't want to make you carry this."
"I already am," I said.
"You shouldn't have to."
"Maybe not. But I want to."
He blinked slowly.
Then said the softest thing:
"You'll write about this one day."
"I'm already writing," I whispered.
He nodded.
And then closed his eyes again.
9:03 PM
Back home now.
The sun has gone down.
But I still smell him on my clothes.
Still feel the ghost of his weight on my lap.
Still hear his voice in my head.
Still feel the pain he didn't say out loud.
I don't know how much longer we have.
But tonight, I let go of pretending.
Tonight, I allowed myself to grieve.
Not because it's over.
But because it's close.
Because I can see the truth now.
No matter how carefully he's been hiding it.
He's not just sick.
He's slipping.
And all I can do is hold him tighter until the moment comes when I can't anymore.
10:21 PMI lit the candle again.
I keep doing that.
Like it's some kind of offering.
Like the flame can barter with fate on my behalf.
Like if I keep it lit, maybe he'll stay.
Maybe the light will fill his chest.
Burn the sickness away.
But it won't.
And I know that now.
I wrote in my journal tonight:
I love him.
Even when he's fading.
Especially then.
I love him in the silence.
In the fear.
In the space between his words.
I love him as his breaths grow shallower.
As his steps slow.
As his hands shake.
I love him even when he lies.
Even when he's too scared to say the word.
I love him like it's the only truth left.
Because maybe it is.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring.
But I know this:
I will keep showing up.
With flowers.
With soup.
With arms that ache from holding him.
And with love that has no end.
– Mi-Chan