It started with your hands.
Small tremors, so slight I almost missed them. You dropped your pencil during literature class. Twice. Fumbled with your water bottle cap during lunch. I thought maybe you were just tired.
Then one afternoon, as we sat under the ginkgo tree behind school, you leaned your head on my shoulder and said quietly, "Do you ever feel like your body's giving up before your heart does?"
I looked down at you.
Your eyes were closed. Your voice was steady. But something in you sounded… tired.
"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.
You opened your eyes, stared up at the golden leaves above us. "Never mind."
But I couldn't.
Something was wrong. I felt it in the way your fingers clenched when you thought no one was watching, in how your smiles came slower, heavier, as days passed.
You began skipping school more. Texts left unread. Music, your constant companion, was sometimes replaced by silence.
The rooftop, once our shared haven, became emptier.
Then one evening, you showed up at my house, soaking wet from the rain.
"Can I come in?" you asked.
I didn't ask why. I just nodded.
You sat on my floor, hugging your knees, shivering slightly. I gave you tea. We didn't talk for a long time.
Finally, you whispered, "I'm not who you think I am, In-ha."
"I never asked you to be anyone else."
"But you should know…" You hesitated, voice cracking. "I'm sick."
My heart paused.
You stared into your cup like it held the answers. "Not the kind of sick that goes away. The kind that waits."
I didn't speak. Couldn't.
"I didn't want to tell you," you said. "Because I like who I am when I'm with you. Not a patient. Not someone to pity. Just... me."
You looked up, tears sitting quietly in your eyes.
"Now you know."
I reached out and took your hand.
It was trembling.
So was mine.
"I don't care how long we have," I said. "I just want the time we do."
And for the first time, you let yourself cry. Not silently. Not hidden.
But completely.
And I held you—tightly—as if my arms could protect you from time itself.
—