If he’d just stayed—if he’d picked me, even for one fleeting moment—I swore I’d forgive everything. I’d erase the messages from my memory, delete the photos burned into my mind, and pretend the lies never happened. I’d bury every shard of betrayal so deep no light could ever reach it again. I wouldn’t say her name. Wouldn’t mention that torn wrapper, or the office desk, or the nights he left me sick and waiting. I’d forgive him. Because loving him had always been my biggest mistake—and my only truth.
But then his phone buzzed against his thigh. He glanced at the screen, face unreadable, emotionless.
Without saying a word, he took a small step back. Then another. Just enough to turn that small distance into a canyon.
He answered.
And then I heard her—her voice thin and trembling through the speaker. Anabella.
“Lucas… I’ve been throwing up all night,” she whispered. “I think I might be pregnant. Can you… can you come with me to the clinic? I’m scared.”
A low ringing filled my ears, like my body was trying to drown out the sound. My vision swam. He turned slightly, maybe to see if I’d caught on, then walked farther down the hall, lowering his tone. But it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. I had heard every word.
The truth didn’t stab—it burned. A slow, ice-cold fire crawling under my skin.
When he returned a minute later, he moved with practiced ease—calm, collected, casual. He slipped on his jacket like nothing had happened.
“Got a quick meet with Santino’s crew,” he said, smoothing his sleeve like there was dust there. “Could get ugly if I skip. Don’t wait up too long, alright? Watch your shows, rest a bit. I’ll be back before dinner.”
Liar.
The word echoed inside my head, sharp and silent.
I couldn’t speak. My throat locked up, air refusing to come in.
He leaned over, tucking the blanket around me like I was fragile glass. He kissed my forehead, soft and sweet, like he hadn’t just destroyed everything inside me. Then he turned the knob, and when the door shut behind him, it wasn’t just the sound of him leaving. It was the sound of something in me being buried alive.
And that’s when I reached for the pen—and signed the damn form.
Organ donor.
---
I went to the hospital alone.
Dr. Marco slid the paper back across the desk, her expression caught between worry and disbelief. She looked too refined for this side of town—light makeup, pressed blouse, the kind of woman who never had to dodge bullets or lies.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked gently. “If your family objects later, they can overrule this.”
“I don’t have family,” I said flatly. “No one to argue about my body. Let them take whatever’s left.”
If I was going under, at least some part of me could still be useful to someone who wanted to live.
She hesitated. Guilt flickered in her eyes, small and human.
“It’s okay,” I told her quietly. “You don’t need to soften it. I’ve been getting bad news since I was fifteen.”
She hesitated again, then said softly, “It’s… not entirely hopeless, you know. With chemo and targeted therapy, we might buy you time. And the pregnancy’s still early—we could try—”
“I know,” I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. “If it were early-stage, maybe I’d fight. But it’s not. And I’m not going to pretend, just so you feel better about this.”
She swallowed, unsure what to say next. Women like her weren’t used to people like me—people who’d cleaned blood off concrete floors and kept their heads down while the world burned.
“How big is a baby at seven weeks?” I asked suddenly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
“There’s already a heartbeat,” she replied softly. “Tiny, but steady.”
“No kidding?” I whispered. My chest tightened. “So it’s alive in there… for real.”
She nodded. “Little one’s got its own rhythm already.”
Something cracked deep inside me then—quiet but sharp. Knowing that something inside me was alive while I was slowly dying felt cruel and miraculous all at once.
Dr. Marco handed me a small note. “That’s my personal number. It’s connected to WhatsApp too. Message or call, anytime.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
The bus ride home was chaos. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with the smell of sweat, gunmetal, and cheap street food. I grabbed a seat at the back, pulled my hoodie up, and kept my head down. I could’ve taken the car, but I didn’t want to drive. Didn’t want to feel alone yet.
I texted her:
“Hey, Doc. How do you even tell if the nausea’s from the cancer or the baby? Haven’t been able to eat for days.”
Before she replied, a voice cut in.
“Hey,” an old man barked. “That seat’s for seniors or pregnant women. Move it.”
“She looks fine,” a woman nearby added, her tone dripping judgment. “Let the old man sit. She’s young.”
The bus murmured in agreement, eyes turning toward me like a trial.
I reached into my bag, pulled out my hospital file, and flashed it like a weapon. “I’m pregnant. And I have stage four brain cancer. So no, I’m not standing. That okay with everyone?”
Silence dropped over the bus like a gunshot.
I leaned back and turned to the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and gold.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel afraid anymore.
---
When I finally opened the door to the house, the silence hit first—heavy, unnatural.
But beneath it lingered a scent—wine and perfume. Sweet, expensive, and not mine.
Only one lamp was on, spilling dim light across the entryway. A wineglass lay tipped over on the console, red liquid pooling beneath it like blood.
I didn’t clean it. My body hurt too much. Every nerve ached from the hospital needles, from the weight of everything pressing on me. Still, I walked forward. Step by slow step. Numb. Empty.
The bedroom door was cracked open.
I pushed it gently.
And there she was.
Anabella.
