I shake my head, the fear creeping in before I can stop it. “Annie…”
“I know what that doctor told you. I know how final it sounded. But this wasn’t the same conversation. This isn’t just more bad news dressed up in different words.”
“My parents searched for answers too. Something better. Something more hopeful. And every time it felt like they were handing me a rope and pulling me back up, but then it always ended in the same place. I just fell harder.”
“No…no, listen to me, this isn’t the same.” She reaches for me again, linking our hands together. “I have a good feeling. This could work. This could—”
“I’m tired,” I whisper brokenly. “Not of living. Just of hoping when it’s already so dark I can barely see anything left.”
“Then let me be the light.” Her words crumble around the edges. “I’m not asking you to believe in some grand cure. I just need you to hang on. To try. To letmetry. Even if it’s only more time, it’s still something. Whatever keeps you here longer. Whatever it takes. It’s worth it, Chase. This life you’ve built—thatwe’vebuilt—it’s so worth it.”
A single tear slips down my cheek.
But for the first time in months, the terror doesn’t feel so paralyzing.
It just feels…human.
Annie pulls back and shoves a hand inside her pocket until something is pressed to my chest.
A paper square. A napkin.
“It’s not lyrics or haikus. But it’s still music. Poetry. Words filled with hope.” Her voice buckles with emotion. “And maybe that’s what we’ve been doing all along. Writing songs out of broken things. Spinning sadness into meaning.”
I stare down at the napkin, the handwriting skewed and blurred. Letters, numbers, maybe an email address. Maybe a map to something better.
More time, more moments.
I hold it in both hands like it might disintegrate if I blink wrong, just like I did with all her other napkin notes, wrinkled and inked with magic.
“She said to send the scans,” Annie whispers. “All of them. She’ll get them in front of someone who knows what to do.”
My throat burns. My legs feel unsteady even though I haven’t taken a step.
“Chase,” she says gently, stepping closer, pulling my forehead down to hers. “Please let this be something. Let this be ours to fight.”
I nod once. Then again, harder, faster, because if I speak, I’ll lose it completely. “I’m terrified,” I finally manage.
“So am I,” she says. “But scared people still move forward. One step. That’s all I’m asking.”
I slide the napkin into my pocket and cup the back of her neck, tucking her against my chest. The smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart…
It’s everything that’s still mine to hold.
She brushes a kiss to my lips. “Remember what I said to you that night at the café? About cards?”
I nod again, those early days flickering through my mind: Annie with spring flowers in her crown of braids, vanilla lattes, curious glances, and acoustics that sounded like a fresh start.
Fleeting moments. Fragile beginnings. Building blocks.
More tears spill down my cheeks. “Everyone has cards.”
A choppy exhale escapes her, and it sounds like relief and love and exhaustion all wrapped in one breath. “Even the worst hands can still be played.”
The thread between us pulls taut again—not as a rescue rope, but as a lifeline.
And not for climbing out. But for climbing through.
Toaster circles my ankles, paws at my legs.
