His Death Day, Her Wedding Day

The phone felt heavy in my hand, a cold, dead weight.

It had been a year since I last heard her voice, a year of silence that felt like a lifetime.

My doctor' s words echoed in my head: "Glioblastoma, stage four. I' m sorry, Ethan. We' re talking months, maybe less."

I called her, my thumb hovering over the button.

"Happy wedding day," I said, pushing the words out. "And the second thing… you once promised that you' d carry my coffin after I die."

The line went dead.

A week after that promise, Olivia had left me. "I never loved you, Ethan," she had said, her face a mask of indifference.