But hope has a way of borrowing from tomorrow without asking.
The decline, when it came, didn’t ask for permission either.
He stopped eating. First gradually, then completely. His breathing changed, shallow and uneven, like each inhale had to be negotiated. His body, once solid and dependable, became fragile in ways that didn’t seem possible.
And then came the moment I couldn’t ignore.
He stopped looking at me.
Not entirely—he still knew I was there—but his gaze drifted, unfocused, like he was already somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t follow.
That’s when the truth finally settled in.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just quietly, like something that had been waiting for me to catch up.
At the clinic that morning, I kept searching for reasons to delay the inevitable.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be. “Anything we haven’t tried?”
