Alive.
I hate that I’m doing this to her.
“Butterfly?” When I speak, my voice sounds smaller than I expect, like it’s already leaving me. She turns, only half awake herself. Her lids open sluggishly, searching for my face. “You need to listen to me,” I say.
Her head snaps up, suddenly fully present. “Don’t.”
“I mean it,” I push, even though it takes more effort than it should. “You don’t get to pretend this isn’t happening.”
Her eyes are veiled with tears, defiant and broken all at once. “I’m not pretending. You’ll be okay.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s the problem. You’re not allowing yourself to see what is happening. I’m… dying.”
She stands so fast the chair scrapes loudly. “You are not. Do not say that.”
I look at her—really look. The woman carrying my child. The woman I love more than my own heartbeat. The woman who deserves mornings and decades and a man who can stand beside her without monitors and nurses and fear.
I lie quietly as my own tears roll down my nose and over my lips. “Noelle, loving you was a forbidden play I wasn’t supposed to make,” I say quietly. “But I’d call that play again. Every time. But I won’t let it cost you your life, waiting for me to die, or cause stress on our baby.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling. “Stop talking like this.” Her words are broken and weak.
“I love you,” I say. “God, Noelle, I love you. But you don’t deserve a dying man. You deserve someone who can lift you when you’re tired. Someone who can chase our son through the yard. Who won’t make you count pills or watch numbers on a screen.”
Her hand presses over her mouth, a sob breaking free, an ugly cry that shows her soul.
Her love.
Her beauty.
“I wanted forever,” I admit. “I wanted to be your husband. I wanted to be in the delivery room when our son was born. I wanted to throw touchdowns with him and have birthday parties for him. Drench you in whipped cream and… but wanting doesn’t change biology. Or fate. Or the fact that my body keeps failing me.”
She leans over me, forehead pressed to mine, tears falling onto my skin. “You’re not allowed to leave,” she whispers. “You promised.”
I close my eyes because if I don’t, I won’t be strong enough to finish this.
“I’m not leaving you because I don’t love you,” I say. “I’m leaving because I do.”
And when she finally breaks—when the sound she makes rips through me deeper than any pain—I know I’ve shattered both our hearts.
But loving her was never a mistake.
FORTY-FOUR
NOELLE
I’m not leaving him or this hospital.
No matter what he says. No matter how tired he looks. No matter how gently—or not so gently—he tries to push me away.
When Matt finally dozes off, his breathing uneven but steady, I slip out into the waiting room. My legs feel hollow, like if I stop moving, they’ll fold beneath me.
His mom looks up immediately. So does my dad.
I don’t bother sitting.
“Why is he doing this?” My voice breaks on the last word. “Why is he pushing me away like he’s already gone?”
Mrs. Stricker’s face softens in that way only mothers can manage—like she’s carried this fear longer than anyone. “Because he’s scared,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t want to see the finality in your eyes if this doesn’t go his way.”
