My eyes blur.
I blink hard, but the tears spill anyway—silent, hot, unstoppable.
I clamp my mouth shut, furious at myself.
Pops’s face crumples with tenderness. “Oh, sweetheart…”
I shake my head, tears falling faster. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t talk like that.”
Pops’s voice breaks slightly. “I’m still here.”
I nod desperately, tears shaking off my chin. “Then stay.”
The plea comes out raw.
Ugly.
Childish.
Like I’m six years old again, begging my mom not to leave for “just a little bit” and knowing deep down she will.
Pops reaches across the table as far as he can and cups my cheek with a trembling hand.
His palm is warm.
His fingers are thin.
“I’m staying as long as I can,” he whispers. “But you have to live after me.”
The words rip through me.
I gasp, a sob catching in my throat.
“No,” I whisper. “No.”
Pops’s eyes shine. “Yes.”
I shake my head harder, trying to dislodge the truth. “Stop. Stop saying that. We’re not?—”
Pops’s voice is gentle and tired. “Sloane. Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I do anyway.
His face is slack at the edges, exhausted, but his eyes are still Pops—steady, loving, stubborn.
He holds my gaze like it’s the only way to keep me anchored.
“Let me love you enough to plan,” he whispers. “Please.”
My chest caves.
I sob, quiet and shaking.
I can’t stop.
I can’t hold it in anymore.
