The hospital room smells like disinfectant and something else. Something rotting underneath. I notice it the second I step through the door.
Eli is in the bed by the window. The sheets are white. His skin is almost the same color. Gray at the edges. His cheekbones press against his face like they're trying to get out. His eyes are closed. There's an IV line in his arm. A monitor beeps next to him. Slow. Steady.
Paloma stands when I enter. She's wearing a cream blouse and tailored pants. Her hair is pulled back. She looks tired. Not messy. Just tired in a way that expensive clothes can't hide.
"Thank you for coming," she says quietly.
I don't respond. I look at Eli. His chest rises and falls. Shallow breaths. The scar above his eyebrow is still there. Darker now against his pale skin.
Paloma picks up her purse from the chair. "I'll give you some time."
She walks past me. Her heels click on the linoleum. The door closes behind her with a soft sound.
I stand at the foot of the bed. I don't move closer. I just look at him.
His eyes open. Slowly. Like it takes effort. He blinks twice. Then he sees me.
"Kiara," he whispers.
His voice is rough. Thin. Nothing like it used to be.
I don't say anything.
He tries to sit up. His hand grips the bed rail. His arm shakes. He makes it halfway before he stops. His breathing is louder now. Ragged.
"You came," he says.
"Paloma asked me to."
He flinches. Just a little. Like the name is a physical thing.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Kiara. I'm so sorry."
I look at the monitor. The numbers on the screen. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. They're all low.
"I was wrong," he says. "I was so wrong. I thought—" He stops. Coughs. It's a wet sound. He reaches for the plastic cup on the side table. His hand shakes too much. Water spills on the sheets.
I don't help him.
He sets the cup down. He looks at me. His eyes are red. "I thought I could have both. The company. The money. You. I thought I could make it work. I thought you'd wait."
"I did wait," I say. "For twenty years."
He closes his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek. It catches in the hollow under his cheekbone. "I know. I know you did. And I—" His voice breaks. "I threw it away. I threw you away. For what? For money. For a company that doesn't even matter now."
I reach into my bag. I pull out the note. It's still folded into a small square. The paper is soft. Worn at the creases. I unfold it carefully.
Eli watches me. His breath catches.
I hold it up so he can see it. The faded crayon letters. The uneven handwriting of a ten-year-old boy.
*I'm going to marry Kiara when we grow up.*
"You wrote this the night you got your scar," I say. "You told me it meant you were serious."
He nods. Fresh tears run down his face. "I was. I meant it. Kiara, I swear I meant it."
"Maybe you did," I say. "When you were ten. But you're not ten anymore."
I set the note on the bedside table. Next to the plastic cup. Next to the pill bottles with his name printed on the labels.
"I came because Paloma asked me to," I say. "She said you needed closure. So here it is. We're done. We were done the night I found out about the wedding. This doesn't change anything."
"Please," he whispers. "Please don't leave. I don't have much time. The doctors said—"
"I know what they said."
He reaches toward me. His hand stretches across the bed rail. His fingers are thin. Skeletal. "Stay. Just for a little while. Please."
I look at his hand. I don't take it.
"I loved you," I say. "I loved you with everything I had. I didn't know how to love anyone else. My whole life was built around you. And you knew that. You knew I couldn't just move on the way other people do. You knew what you were taking when you lied to me."
"I know," he sobs. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could go back—"
"You can't."
He stares at me. His mouth opens. Closes. No words come out.
I pick up my bag. "Goodbye, Eli."
"Kiara—"
I walk to the door. My hand rests on the handle.
"I'm dying," he says behind me. His voice cracks on the word. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
I look back at him. He's crying now. Full, choking sobs. His whole body shakes with them. The monitor beeps faster.
"No," I say. "It doesn't."
I open the door and step into the hallway. Paloma is standing near the nurses' station. She turns when she hears me. Her face is a question.
I walk past her without stopping.
The elevator doors open. I step inside. I press the button for the ground floor. The doors close.
I lean against the wall. The fluorescent light hums above me. My reflection stares back from the metal panel. I look the same as I did an hour ago. The same as I did six weeks ago.
I don't cry.
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open. I walk through the lobby. Past the reception desk. Past the waiting area with its rows of plastic chairs. Past the woman holding a crying baby. Past the man staring at his phone.
I push through the glass doors. The air outside is cold. Clean. It smells like rain.
I get in my car. I sit behind the wheel for a moment. Then I start the engine and drive away.
I don't look back at the hospital. I don't think about the note I left on the bedside table. I don't think about Eli's hand reaching across the bed rail.
I just drive.
And for the first time since I walked into that hotel lobby, I feel something close to peace.
