After comforting myself, I felt much better.
Then I got up early to make breakfast for Sheridan.
He stumbled out, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
I subconsciously moved to hug him.
But he turned away, impatience etched in his furrowed brow.
A lump formed in my throat.
In the end, I said nothing.
We ate breakfast in a silence heavier than any we'd known before.
I wanted to say something.
But Sheridan's cold gaze silenced me.
After eating, Sheridan picked up his bag.
"I'm meeting an important artist today. Go to the gallery on your own."
I managed a "Mhm," but he was already out the door before I could say more.
At noon, I left half an hour early.
I went to Mount Sinai Hospital to pick up my latest test results.
In college, my eating habits were very irregular.
I barely ate more than one meal a day.
After graduation, my stomach was always bothering me.
And, my already poor appetite had recently gotten worse.
I'd lost five pounds in a week.
A knot of dread tightened in my stomach.
But that was nothing compared to the abyss that opened up when I read the report.
I felt hopeless.
Terminal stomach cancer.
It was inoperable.
I clutched the report tightly.
I felt adrift in the sterile, silent hospital corridors.
I didn't know who to share this news with.
I picked up my phone, then put it down again.
I am twenty-four years old.
My life has never been smooth sailing.
It felt like God was playing a cruel joke on me.
I sat distractedly on a hospital bench.
For a moment, I considered just... ending it.
But what about Sheridan?
He can't cook, and I'm the one who picks out all his clothes.
At social functions, he's always forced to drink.
Every time he drinks too much, he throws up.
Then he lies on top of me like a cat.
The next day he'll have a headache.
Who will make him the spaghetti bolognese he loves?
I once thought I was all alone, with no one to worry about.
But in that moment, I realized.
Sheridan was my only anchor in this world.
What would he do if I died?
I sighed.
My time was running out.
My thoughts were consumed with worry for the man I loved.
I stood up, ready to go home.
I turned to leave, but a flash of movement in my peripheral vision stopped me.
It was Sheridan.
My heart tightened.
What was he doing at the hospital? Was he sick?
Just as I was thinking this, I saw Royce following closely behind him, emerging from the VIP ward.
Whatever she said, it made him collapse into her arms, burying his face in the thin fabric of her hospital gown.
I stood frozen for a second before bolting down the stairs.
By the time I reached the ground floor, I was breathless.
The sharp cramps in my stomach were becoming unbearable.
I drove home.
My mind was a mess.
I tried to busy my hands to quiet my mind, so I cooked. A feast.
All of Sheridan's favorites, including that spaghetti bolognese.
I kept myself busy.
It was already 5 o'clock when I called Sheridan.
But he didn't pick up.
I sat at the dining table.
I stubbornly waited for Sheridan's return.
Seven o'clock.
He finally came home.
I stood up instinctively to help him with his coat.
He flinched, just slightly, and my stomach dropped. Something was wrong.
"Where were you today?"
My voice came out hoarse from disuse.
His eyes were slightly red as he glanced at the food on the table.
"I didn't know you were cooking. Let me heat it up."
"No need. I've already had dinner."
His tone was icy. "And you don't have to bother doing this anymore."
Then he walked into the study without another word.
I lowered my head.
I sat alone in the dining room.
The ache in my heart quickly eclipsed the fire in my gut.
In four years, Sheridan had never been this cold.
He stayed in the study all night.
And I didn't sleep a wink either.
The next day, he packed his Rimowa suitcase.
