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.
“You promised we’d get through anything together,” I whispered.
He looked ashamed and terrified, but that didn’t make it hurt less.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“So that’s it?” I asked. “You’re leaving before I get sicker? Before treatment changes me? Before I stop looking like the woman you were comfortable loving?”
He flinched.
“Please don’t.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Don’t what? Say the truth?”
A few minutes later, he picked up his bag and walked out, leaving me standing alone as my future collapsed around me.
The wedding was twelve days away.
