By the time I was 31, our entire life revolved around her illness. There were good months, bad months, and eventually, there were months I stopped trying to describe to anyone. I reduced my hours at work, we canceled trips, and I drained most of my savings without telling Chloe. I didn’t do it because she asked me to, but because there was always something to pay for. There was always a medication insurance wouldn’t fully cover, a hotel near a specialist, transportation, food, lost work, or unexpected bills.
I had once planned to use that money as a down payment on a house, and Chloe knew that. She hated knowing it with every fiber of her being.
“You’re spending your whole future on me,” she told me one evening.
“You are in my future,” I answered without hesitation.
“You know what I mean, Lucas,” she whispered.
I did, but I just didn’t want to admit it. Then, four years after we met, doctors recommended a major surgery. It was complicated, and while experimental wasn’t quite the right word, reassuring definitely wasn’t either. There was a chance the procedure could dramatically improve Chloe’s condition, but there was also a chance her body wouldn’t tolerate it. The week before the operation, I noticed something different about her because she was unusually quiet.
I was sitting beside her hospital bed, absentmindedly peeling the label from a water bottle, when she reached for my hand.
“Lucas,” she called softly.
“Hmm?” I looked up.
“Marry me,” she said.
