I wanted him around because I missed him when he wasn’t there.
A month after my transplant, he arrived at my apartment after dark.
This time, he wasn’t carrying food.
No book.
No plant.
No sarcastic joke waiting behind his smile.
He stood in the hallway with his hands buried inside his coat pockets.
“Can I come in?”
Something in his voice frightened me.
I stepped aside.
He sat at my kitchen table, staring at the poor fern sitting near the window.
I tried to break the tension.
“It’s still alive.”
“Barely.”
“Nathan, what’s wrong?”
He took a breath.
“The doctors found something during one of my follow-up examinations.”
My stomach tightened.
“Because you donated?”
“No. It isn’t related to the transplant.”
I sat opposite him.
“Then what?”
He finally met my eyes.
“Cancer.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
“What kind?”
He told me.
I heard the words, but they barely registered.
What I understood was worse.
Aggressive.
Advanced.
Treatment might slow it down.
Treatment might give him time.
But his doctors didn’t believe they could cure it.
Then came the sentence that shattered whatever hope I was desperately trying to construct.
“They can’t tell me how long I have.”
I reached across the table.
He took my hand.
For the first time since meeting Nathan, he looked truly frightened.
“I don’t want whatever time I have left to be lonely,” he whispered.
“You won’t be alone.”
His mouth twisted into a sad smile.
“Careful saying things like that.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Then he stood.
He reached inside his coat.
And placed a small ring box beside the dying fern.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
“Nathan…”
“I know.”
“You cannot possibly know what I’m about to say.”
“I know this is fast.”
“Fast?”
My voice rose.
“You just told me you have terminal cancer and now you’re putting a ring on my table. This isn’t fast. This is insane.”
“Probably.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a simple silver ring.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing theatrical.
That somehow made it worse.
It looked real.
“Marry me,” he said.
I stood and walked toward the sink because sitting felt impossible.
“You can’t tell me you’re dying and propose marriage in the same conversation.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He stood too.
“I know that I love you.”
I turned toward him.
“Do you actually want me as your wife? Or are you terrified of dying alone?”
Nathan flinched.
Then, quietly, he answered.
“Both things can be true.”
That frightened me more than a polished answer would have.
Because it sounded real.
I thought about the man who had entered my life before he knew anything about me.
The hospital pudding.
The books.
The fern.
The rain.
His hand holding mine while we laughed about things that didn’t matter.
My illness had already taught me that time had no respect for sensible plans.
So I asked him for one thing.
“If I say yes, I need a promise.”
“Anything.”
“No secrets.”
Nathan met my eyes.
“No secrets.”
“Don’t protect me from the truth.”
“I won’t.”
I believed him.
And I said yes.
For illustrative purposes only
Part 3 — A Wedding Built Around Uncertainty
We didn’t plan a large wedding.
There was no time for months of seating charts and floral consultations.
More importantly, neither of us wanted that.
We reserved a small garden room behind a local restaurant.
My parents came.
My brother complained dramatically about wearing a tie.
Mara cried before the ceremony began.
Nathan hadn’t started treatment yet.
We didn’t talk about death directly, but it hovered near every conversation.
We tried not to treat every dinner like a last dinner.
Every walk like a last walk.
Every morning like borrowed time.
On our wedding day, before everyone arrived, I held Nathan’s hands and asked one final question.
“Are we doing this because we’re frightened?”
