Her fiancé stayed through the cake tastings, dress fittings, and nearly a year of wedding planning—right up until doctors told them her illness was terminal.

I was twenty-nine, sitting at our kitchen table in one of his old sweatshirts, still struggling to process the words “advanced” and “terminal.” My tea had gone cold. My mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the appointment.

Daniel stood by the door holding an overnight bag.

For a moment, I stared at the bag, convincing myself there had to be another explanation. Maybe he needed space. Maybe he was staying with his brother for a night.

Then he repeated himself.

“I can’t do this, Serah.”

That was when I understood.

He wasn’t talking about the diagnosis.

He was talking about me.