I locked the bedroom door, walked over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out the thick leather journal. I flipped to the next blank page.
Picking up the pen felt like trying to lift a boulder. The chaos in my mind had finally settled into a cold, terrifying clarity, but my body was failing.
My abdomen, my head, my heart—everything felt as though it was being slowly, methodically sliced open by a rusty blade.
I was freezing. It was a biting, unnatural cold that no amount of blankets could fix.
My hands shook violently, but I forced the pen to the paper, meticulously and painfully writing out every letter.
August 25th.
Today is our fourth wedding anniversary.
Silas cooked for me. He bought flowers and decorated the penthouse.
He bought tickets to take me to the islands.
But before we could even sit down, Serena called.
Silas went to Serena and left me behind.
I guess I won't ever get to see those islands after all.
Goodbye, Silas.
A teardrop slid down my cheek and splashed onto the paper, bleeding the black ink into a smear of grey.
I wasn't crying over a broken heart; I was crying because the physical pain was unbearable.
I had survived my whole life on scraps of affection.
Because no one had ever truly loved me, I poured my entire soul into Silas, living purely on the hope that he would love me back.
I had loved him so deeply. But that pure, fiery devotion had long since burned to ash. Now, only a hollow, rotting shell remained.
I was like a candle that had burned off its final wisp of flame, leaving nothing but the metal base.
The moment Silas Vance walked out that door, my last shred of love for him vanished with him.
I dragged the pen across the page to finish the final stroke, leaned back in the chair, and laughed. I laughed until my chest heaved, the harsh sound cutting through the quiet room.
My role in this pathetic farce was officially over.
Why did I hide my cancer? Why did I play dumb and turn a blind eye to their emotional affair? Why did I make that bet with Serena?
Because what I handed Serena wasn't the keys to the kingdom; it was a live grenade.
The living can never compete with the dead.
Whether Silas loved me or not didn't matter anymore. He would never forget me.
He owed me. He owed me for his life, his stability, his guilt.
I was going to let him drown in remorse.
I wanted him to read this diary.
I wanted him to sit alone in this empty apartment and think long and hard about exactly how he had pushed his dying wife into the abyss while rushing to his ex-girlfriend's side.
This absurd tragedy would culminate in my death. And the cruel, agonizing fallout would be borne entirely by Silas and Serena.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills I had been hoarding.
I tipped my head back, dry-swallowing the pills by the handful. The chalky tablets scraped the back of my throat, making me gag, but I forced them down until the bottle was empty.
On the desk, right next to my diary, sat a leather-bound binder. Inside were the recipes I had spent four years perfecting for his ulcer-prone stomach. It was my final parting gift to my husband.
I lay down in the center of the bed, crossed my hands over my chest, stared at the ceiling, and waited for death to arrive.
The apartment was dead silent.
Then, a frantic scratching erupted at my bedroom door.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Nova slammed his body against the wooden door, barking wildly.
I closed my eyes, tuning out the noise. The drugs hit me like a heavy blanket, dragging my consciousness down into the dark.
Nova kept screaming.
And then, there was nothing.
