I’d spend the morning at my dance class, helping teach the little ones—tiny bodies full of energy, limbs flailing with joy more than technique. I loved it. Their laughter, their unfiltered happiness. It filled something in me, reminded me why I fell in love with dance in the first place.
Dad always said music lived in my bones. Even before I could talk properly, my body moved when a song came on, like it knew what to do before I did. The second I was old enough, he signed me up for classes. Worked longer hours to pay for them. Showed up to every recital, every showcase—front row, clapping the loudest, eyes shining like I was performing on some grand stage instead of a drafty hall.
He never missed a show.
Never missed anything.
Now it's late, the sun is sinking low and setting the sky on fire—deep oranges bleeding into soft pinks. We’re sitting on our battered dark-green blanket, hot chocolates warming our hands, another blanket pulled over our legs as the chill creeps in. The sea rolls gently in front of us, waves brushing the shore in a steady rhythm that always calms me. The wind tugs at my hair.
I smile and look at him.
Dirty blonde hair that desperately needs a cut, touches of grey just starting to creep in at the temples. Stubble, he insists,“women love,” even though he hasn't been on a real date in years. A faint scar on his cheek from a fall he had at work last year.
He looks the same, but something feels off.
His shoulders are tense. His fingers keep tapping against his forearm. He hasn't really spoken—not like he usually does. It's too quiet. The silence is deafening, and the air feels off.
I tuck my hair behind my ear as the wind keeps blowing it into my eyes. That's when he finally clears his throat.
“You know I love you, right?”
There's never been a moment in my life when I've ever doubted that. He raised me alone. I remember he would stay up all night whenever I was sick. Slept in the hospital chair when I had my tonsils out, refusing to leave my side even though we both knew how comfortable the chairs were. When a boy once broke my heart, Dad filled his brand-new car with rainbow glitter. They didn't even check before getting in, and they sparkled for days, and his parents were given a hefty bill to fix it.
I tried to be mad at the time, but it was hilarious and totally deserved.
“Of course I know,” I responded, nudging his arm and crossing my legs. “Why are you asking stupid questions?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“There's something I need to tell you.”
My stomach tightens.
“You finally got a girlfriend?” I tease weakly.
He lets out a rough laugh. “Definitely not. Told you before, you're the only girl in my life. The rest aren't worth the headache.”
When I was younger, I hated the idea of anyone else joining our little family. Now… I wish he would. Since Mum, he's never really tried. I’m not naive—I know he's had the occasionalmeaningless flings, ones he thinks I don't notice. As if I wouldn't clock unfamiliar perfume or lace thongs in the bin.
So obvious and very disturbing.
“Okay. You're worrying me now.”
He reaches for my hand, the sky darkening above us as I grip his back instinctively. “I… Willow. I don't even know how to say this.”
The cold bites at my skin, but it's nothing compared to the nerves.
“I had some tests done.”
Well, that's news to me.
“What kind of tests?”
He shifts closer. “Scans. I've been having headaches. Forgetting things. Thought it was better to get it checked.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” My brows knit together.
“I didn't want to worry you.”
