Dear Diary,
He's in hospice now.
The word itself made me cry the first time I heard it from his lips.
Not because it means death.
But because it means the waiting for it.
And I don't know how to do that.
I don't know how to sit beside the boy I love and watch the minutes we have dwindle like light at the end of the day.
But I went.
I showed up.
Because if this is the final chapter, I'm going to be in every line of it.
With him.
Until the very last period.
11:03 AM
The building was quiet.
Too clean.
Too white.
Too much like a place people go to vanish softly.
I hated it.
But I kept walking.
His room was at the end of the hall — Room 407.
The number echoed in my chest as I turned the corner.
I paused at the door.
Took a breath.
And then knocked.
"Come in," he said.
His voice was weak.
But still his.
11:06 AM
He was lying in bed, surrounded by pillows.
The blanket tucked up to his chest.
His skin pale.
Lips dry.
But when he saw me, he smiled — and for a second, he looked like the boy from months ago.
"I was hoping you'd come," he whispered.
"I was always coming," I said, walking to his side.
I sat down in the chair beside him.
Took his hand.
And felt the difference immediately.
He was light.
Too light.
Like the fever had melted away what was left of him.
But still, he held me.
Still, he tried to squeeze back.
11:24 AM
"I asked them for a window," he said.
"I see that."
"They gave me the best one."
I looked outside.
The trees were dancing in the breeze.
Sunlight spilled in like it didn't know someone was dying in here.
It was beautiful.
And cruel.
12:02 PM
We talked for a while.
About nothing.
About everything.
He asked if I brought the diary.
I nodded and pulled it from my bag.
He chuckled.
"I can't believe you've kept it this long."
"I can't believe you're just now asking to hear it."
"I was scared."
"Of what?"
"That I'd fall in love with us all over again."
"You never stopped."
He smiled.
"I know."
12:31 PM
I started reading.
The early entries.
"April 8 – A Ride I Didn't Ask For"
"He gave me his jacket. I didn't want it. But I didn't want to give it back either. His kindness feels like something dangerous."
He laughed.
"God, I remember that. You looked like you wanted to run."
"I did."
"You didn't."
"No," I said. "I stayed."
We looked at each other.
And the weight of that stayed between us.
12:57 PM
I read another.
"April 21 – The Essay Savior"
"He touched my hand today. I felt it in my ribs. I pretended I didn't. But I think I'll dream about it."
He smiled.
And whispered, "Me too."
1:33 PM
He grew tired, so I stopped.
Set the book aside.
Held his hand.
And asked, "Do you want me to stay longer?"
He opened his eyes.
And said, "Forever."
And even though we both knew that wasn't possible, I whispered, "Okay."
Because what else can you say when someone you love is asking you to cheat time?
You lie sweetly.
Because the truth is too cruel.
2:04 PM
The nurse came in with medication.
I stepped outside for a moment.
Paced the hallway.
Sat down in a chair with plastic arms.
Cried quietly into my palms.
Because I didn't want to cry in front of him.
Not yet.
Not when he was still trying to smile.
2:33 PM
When I went back in, he was asleep.
I sat beside him again.
Watched his chest rise and fall.
Slow.
Uneven.
But still moving.
And I whispered to him:
"I'm still here."
3:14 PM
He woke.
Looked over.
"You came back."
"I didn't leave."
He smiled.
And then said something that wrecked me:
"You make dying feel less lonely."
I put my head on his chest.
And sobbed.
For the first time in front of him.
I couldn't stop it.
Couldn't hold it in anymore.
He ran his fingers through my hair.
Barely.
Weakly.
But enough.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For everything I can't fix."
"You gave me more time than medicine ever could," he said.
And I wanted to believe that.
So badly.
4:01 PM
We talked about the next few days.
Hospice schedules.
Pain management.
Visitors.
He said he didn't want many.
Just me.
And maybe — if he felt up to it — his sister.
"No one else matters now," he said.
"Selfish," I teased.
"Maybe," he said. "But I've earned it."
"You have."
We smiled.
And then the silence came back.
But this time, it wasn't heavy.
It was peaceful.
Like we were both finally letting go of the need to pretend.
5:17 PM
Before I left, I sat on the bed.
Laid beside him.
And we stared at the ceiling.
"I'm scared," I said.
"I know."
"I don't want to forget."
"You won't."
"I might."
"Then I'll leave you reminders."
"Like what?"
He pointed to the diary.
"And this room. And that window. And every cup of tea you make for the rest of your life."
I closed my eyes.
"Stay with me a little longer?"
He turned to me.
Held my hand to his chest.
And said, "I will. Until I can't."
6:02 PM
I left when he fell asleep again.
Walked down the hallway with his scent still on my sweater.
Out into the golden light of a dying day.
And I realized…
Hospice doesn't mean hopeless.
It means we still have time.
Not much.
Not forever.
But enough.
Enough to read.
To laugh.
To cry.
To love.
To remember.
I lit the candle again tonight.
And I wrote this at the top of the page:
"Even the last page of a love story is still part of the love."
And it is.
So I'll be there for the next one.
And the next.
Until the very last word.
– Mi-Chan