What Remains After Goodbye
Ann sat on the edge of her hospital bed, legs dangling over the side, staring blankly at the white-tiled floor. The room smelled of antiseptic and sadness. Every beep of the monitor above her head was a reminder that her body was at war with itself.
She thought she had prepared for this. She thought she had armored herself enough to push him away and live with the silence. But each day without Willian was like bleeding in slow motion — invisible wounds that never healed.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from her mother.
"We're flying to Paris for a conference next week. Do you need anything before we go?"
Ann didn't reply. There was nothing left to say.
Her parents visited only when the doctors insisted on signatures. They brought gifts — flowers, books, once even a new phone — as though shiny things could substitute for their presence. But their hugs were shallow, their visits brief. In their eyes, Ann was still the perfect daughter who didn't complain, didn't ask for much.
The ache in her chest wasn't just the cancer. It was the loneliness, the pretending, the unbearable knowledge that the only person who ever truly saw her was now gone.
Willian stood outside his apartment, the city buzzing around him. Laughter floated from a nearby café, mingling with the sound of rain tapping softly on the pavement. Everything felt distant, like life was happening behind a pane of glass.
He had tried. He really had.
After Ann's cold goodbye, he spiraled for weeks. The image of that fake photo, the pain in her voice, haunted him. He knew her better than anyone — he had memorized the way her voice trembled when she lied. But instead of confronting her again, he did what she asked.
He left.
But love doesn't switch off like a light.
It lingers.
He opened the drawer where the engagement ring still lay nestled in its velvet box. He hadn't touched it since that night. Now, he stared at it, wondering if he'd been a fool. Wondering if maybe... just maybe, there was still more to the story.
Ann's doctor, a kind-eyed woman named Dr. Reyes, pulled up a chair next to her bed.
"You've responded well to treatment this past month," she said gently. "But the next phase is critical. You'll need support — emotionally as much as physically."
Ann nodded, her throat dry. "I'll be okay."
Dr. Reyes sighed, the kind of sigh that held more truth than words. "I know you're trying to be strong. But strength doesn't mean doing it alone."
Alone.
That word followed her like a shadow.
Ann watched the sun crawl across the ceiling, thinking about how Willian used to hold her hand when she was scared. How he would crack terrible jokes just to make her laugh. How he used to tell her she was brave — even when she didn't feel it.
She pressed her eyes shut.
Maybe it was time.
Maybe it was finally time to tell the truth.
Willian was at the train station when he saw her.
At first, he thought it was a dream — a cruel trick of memory. But there she was, standing by the entrance in a faded hoodie, her shoulders smaller, face paler, eyes carrying a thousand storms.
His heart jolted.
She turned — and saw him.
Neither moved.
For a moment, the noise of the world seemed to pause. Then Ann did something she hadn't done in months.
She walked toward him.
They stood inches apart. Rain slicked the pavement between them. Her lips trembled, but she didn't speak. He waited.
"Willian," she finally whispered.
His name on her lips was like a balm and a blade all at once.
"I lied to you," she continued, voice barely audible. "I was never in love with anyone else."
"I know," he said, gently.
She blinked, startled.
"I always knew," he added. "I just didn't know why."
Ann swallowed hard. "I was scared. I thought if I let you stay... I'd drag you down with me."
"And you didn't think I deserved the choice?" His voice cracked slightly. "You didn't think I'd fight for you?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I thought I was protecting you."
He looked at her — really looked. There was pain etched in every line of her face, but there was still that same quiet fire in her eyes. The same Ann he had loved since the first awkward study session.
"You don't protect people by hurting them," he said softly. "You protect them by letting them in."
They sat on a bench beneath the overhang, letting the storm rage around them.
Ann told him everything.
About the diagnosis. The treatments. The nights she cried until her throat was raw. The moments she wanted to disappear because the pain was too much.
Willian listened, silent, holding her hand the way he used to — as if letting go would unravel everything.
"I was so afraid you'd hate me," she whispered.
"I did," he admitted. "But only because I loved you."
A long pause.
"I still do."
Ann stared at him, heart thundering.
"But I'm sick," she said.
"I know."
"I might not make it."
"I know."
"And you'd still choose me?"
"In every lifetime," he said without hesitation.
Over the next few weeks, Willian became her anchor.
He drove her to appointments. He sat beside her during chemo, reading to her when she was too tired to hold a book. He held her when the pain was too much, and she broke down in the middle of the night.
Sometimes, they laughed — about stupid things, like the nurse who always hummed 80s music, or the way hospital pudding tasted like cardboard. Sometimes, they cried — quietly, fiercely, like people who knew time was fragile.
But always, they loved.
Their love wasn't like it used to be — not carefree or dreamy. It was something deeper now. Gritty. Raw. Real.
It was love forged in fire.
One night, after a brutal round of treatment, Ann lay in her bed, too weak to move. Willian sat by her side, stroking her hair.
"Do you remember the night we first kissed?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled. "At the planetarium. You said the stars made you dizzy."
"You kissed me to shut me up."
"I kissed you because I couldn't stand one more second not kissing you."
She smiled faintly, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Anything."
"If I don't make it... live big. Be happy. Fall in love again. Don't stay stuck."
Willian looked at her like she had asked him to forget how to breathe.
"You don't ask a heart to stop beating," he said. "But I'll try. For you."
Ann closed her eyes.
"I just wanted to be enough," she whispered.
Willian pressed his forehead to hers.
"You were always more than enough."
And as the city slept outside the hospital walls, two souls held onto each other — not because they believed in forever, but because in that moment, their love was the only thing that still felt true.
[To be continued...]