I still replay that day in my head, over and over, every single detail etched into my memory like a scar. The quiet hum of the car, the way the late afternoon sun slanted through the window, making dust motes dance. It was over. We were finally, agonizingly, over. I had spent months trying to understand his distance, his sudden coldness, the way he’d started looking through me instead of at me. I convinced myself he just didn’t care anymore, that I was a burden he was ready to shed. My heart was a raw, exposed nerve, but I forced myself to be strong. “Don’t worry about it. Ha to everyone,” he said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried a strange finality. He even managed a warm smile. A warm smile, when my world was crumbling. It felt like a dismissal, a confirmation of his indifference. He handed me my bags, one by one, watching me, his eyes unreadable. I nodded, not trusting my voice, turned, and walked out. Each step was an agonizing testament to a love I thought was lost to his apathy. I felt a desperate need to believe I was doing the right thing, escaping a man who had become a ghost.
Weeks later, the initial numbness gave way to a fragile sense of peace. I was rebuilding. I was starting to believe I had made it through, that I had saved myself from a man who couldn’t love me the way I needed. I even started to resent that smile, that casual farewell, as if I had meant nothing. The pain still stung, but it was a distant throb, not the constant agony it had been.
Then it appeared. A mysterious PACKAGE on my doorstep. No return address. Just my name, written in a hand that was hauntingly familiar. My heart started to thump. Who would send me something? Why? A cold dread started to spread through me. I picked it up, feeling the unexpected weight.
I tore it open, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper, were papers. Not letters, not photos of another woman, nothing I expected. Instead, there were MEDICAL REPORTS. My breath hitched. His name was on every single one. Diagnosis. Prognosis. Tests. My eyes scanned the words, meaningless at first, then coalescing into a horrifying clarity. STAGE FOUR. My hands started to shake uncontrollably.
And underneath them, a small, folded note. His handwriting. Oh God, his handwriting. I unfolded it, my vision blurring. It was short. “I couldn’t let you stay, couldn’t let you watch. You deserve a full life, a happy life. Don’t worry about it. Ha to everyone, remember? That smile wasn’t for me leaving, it was for you living. I wanted you to hate me, so it would be easier. Someone was watching, making sure you got out clean, making sure you had peace.”
I FROZE. The warm smile. The casual farewell. “Don’t worry about it. Ha to everyone.” It wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t apathy. It was the most selfless, agonizing act of love. He didn’t push me away because he stopped loving me. HE PUSHED ME AWAY BECAUSE HE WAS DYING. And he sacrificed his last moments with me, enduring my hatred, just so I wouldn’t have to endure his pain. The garbled text flashed in my mind, “Someone was watching.” He was watching me leave, watching me heal, even as he was fading. My understanding wasn’t a realization, it was an APOCALYPSE in my soul. I crumpled to the floor, the package falling from my hands. I hadn’t escaped a heartless man; I had abandoned one who loved me with a depth I couldn’t even comprehend until it was too late.
