---- Chapter 1 On the day of my funeral, Chloe was getting married. That' s the simplest way to put it, the starkest truth that defines the end of my story and the beginning of hers. While a handful of people who genuinely loved me gathered under a gray, weeping sky, she was standing under a canopy of white roses, bathed in sunlight and applause. The contrast was a final, silent joke played by the universe. But before that quiet end, there was a loud, painful beginning to that end. It started the day Mark Johnson came back. He drove up to our small, rented house in a car that cost more than | made in three years. He stepped out looking like he owned the world, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile a weapon. He was Chloe' s ex, the one who represented everything | wasn' t: wealthy, powerful, and secure. He didn't even need to say a word, his presence alone was a declaration of war. That night, the air in our little house felt tight, suffocating. | was at my desk, the lines of code for my game blurring on the screen. The fatigue was a heavy blanket | couldn't throw off. Chloe stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. She wasn' t looking at me, but at some point beyond me, at a future | clearly wasn't a part of. "We need to talk, Ethan." ---- Her voice was different, stripped of the warmth | was used to. It was cool and measured "Mark is back," she stated, not asked. "He' s offered me a Position at his firm. A real career. A chance to have the life we' ve talked about." The "we" felt like a lie. We hadn' t talked about a life of corporate success and country clubs. We had talked about building something together, my games, her art, a life that was messy and real. "What are you saying, Chloe?" | asked, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm saying | can' t do this anymore," she said, finally meeting my eyes. Her gaze was hard. "l can' t keep waiting for you to make it. This game of yours... it' s a hobby, Ethan. It 'snot a future. | need security. | need more than what you can give me." She delivered the words like a judge passing a sentence. There was no room for appeal. Each word landed like a physical blow, and a familiar, deep ache started in my chest, a pain that had nothing to do with my heart. What she didn' t know, what | hadn' t told anyone, was that the fatigue wasn' t from late nights coding. The weight | was losing wasn't from stress. The persistent cough | tried to hide wasn't just a cold. A month ago, a doctor with sad eyes sat across from me in a sterile white room and used words like ---- "inoperable" and _ "palliative." He gave me a timeline measured in months, not years. He talked about treatments that might buy me a little more time, but at the cost of my remaining strength. | had made a choice. | didn' t want to spend my last days sick and weak in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. | wanted to finish my game. It was my legacy, my final love letter, the only thing | had left to give. | had politely declined the doctor' s aggressive treatment plan, opting only for medication to manage the pain. | wanted to live, truly live, for as long as | had left, and for me, living meant creating. Chloe saw my silence, my gaunt frame, and my tired eyes, and she misinterpreted it all. She saw weakness, not a man fighting a battle she couldn't see. "Look at you," she said, her voice laced with a cruelty that felt new. "You' re always tired. You' re letting yourself go. Is this what you want? To just waste away in front of this computer screen?" The irony was so thick | could have choked on it. Wasting away. If only she knew. | didn' t answer. | just turned back to my screen, my fingers finding the keyboard. | had to finish this. It was more important than arguing, more important than defending myself. The game was a world | had built for her, a universe where every star was named after a memory we shared. The main character was even modeled after her, a brave ---- adventurer exploring a beautiful, dangerous world. | typed a line of code, my hand shaking slightly. My vision swam for a second. "Are you even listening to me?" she snapped, her frustration boiling over. "This is what you always do! You just retreat into your little fantasy world and ignore reality! I' m talking about our future, and you' re playing with your stupid game!" | finally looked up at her. The pain in my chest was sharp now, a real, physical thing. | felt a wave of dizziness. "I'm sorry, Chloe," | managed to say. "I'm sorry | couldn' t be what you needed." | thought about telling her everything. About the diagnosis. About the ticking clock. A part of me screamed to do it, to see if it would change the coldness in her eyes. But then | imagined the look on her face-pity. | imagined her staying with me out of guilt, her ambition chained to a dying man. | couldn 't do that to her. | loved her too much for that. And maybe, deep down, | couldn't bear the thought that even the truth of my death wouldn't be enough to make her stay. She took my apology as an admission of failure. She shook her head, a final, dismissive gesture. "It's too late for sorry, Ethan." She turned and walked out of the room. | heard the front door open, then close with a soft, final click. The sound echoed in ---- the sudden, crushing silence of the house. | was alone. | stared at the screen, at the digital world | had poured my soul into. Then the pain in my chest exploded. It wasn't an ache anymore, it was a fire. My breath caught in my throat. | tried to call her name, but no sound came out. My vision tunneled to black, and my body slid from the chair, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The last thing | saw was the glowing screen of my monitor, a testament to a love she had just thrown away.