Right before we boarded at the gate, Derrick gave my first-class ticket to his childhood friend, Sylvia, who had just gone through a bad breakup. He leaned down to adjust my wool scarf, his touch gentle but his words carrying a quiet, familiar cruelty. “Sylvia’s heart condition is flaring up from the stress,” he said. “Ten hours in economy would absolutely drain her. Be the bigger person, Irene.” I looked down at the coach boarding pass in my hand, and a sudden, dry laugh slipped out of me. Five years. For five years, every time he demanded I step aside, it was always because she needed it more. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he left my dinner party early to carry a feverish Sylvia to his car, telling me over his shoulder that I’d always have next year. He took the concert tickets I had queued three hours in the freezing rain to get and handed them to her because she “needed a reason to smile.” I booked a glass-roofed cabin in Alaska three months in advance, and he let her have the master bedroom because she was afraid of the dark. And on the day of my diagnosis, he took her crying phone call right at the clinic doors, turning on his heel and walking away without looking back. He didn’t know that the doctor had already told me I wouldn’t have a next year. This trip to Alaska wasn’t just a vacation. It was the final funeral I had planned for myself. By the time the gate agent called for group boarding, Derrick had already guided Sylvia into the first-class lounge. My chest tightened with a dull, suffocating ache. Derrick glanced back, noticing I hadn’t moved, his brow knitting together in familiar irritation. “Irene, don’t just stand there blocking the lane. Go check your bag.” I held out my hand. “Give me my passport holder.” 1 He paused for a beat, pulled it from his pocket, and handed it to me along with the luggage tags. “Handle the check-in yourself,” he said, checked his watch. “I need to stay with Sylvia. She’s looking really pale.” Through the glass wall of the lounge, I could see Sylvia sitting on a plush leather sofa, draped in Derrick’s favorite cashmere coat. “Derrick, let Irene have her seat back,” she murmured as he walked back to her, her voice carrying just enough weight to be heard. “I’ll be fine in coach. Really.” Derrick leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Don’t push yourself. Your heart can’t take the pressure changes. Irene is healthy—she’s tough. She’ll be fine.” I clenched the boarding pass until the paper crumpled in my fist. Healthy. Tough. For five years, that was his shield. Because I was the strong one, the one who didn’t cry, I was the one who could be pushed aside. I swallowed two of my prescription painkillers, washed them down with lukewarm bottled water, and dialed Derrick’s number. The line connected, but it was Sylvia’s soft voice that came through. Before I could speak, Derrick’s voice echoed in the background: “Irene, stop throwing a tantrum with your health.” Then, the line went dead. I stared at the medical release waiver the airline staff had requested me to sign due to my condition. I didn’t try calling back. When I finally walked out of the airport clinic, the gate agent informed me that economy was overbooked due to a system error. They suggested I take a travel voucher and rebook on the next flight, six hours later. I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.” “Do you need us to notify the rest of your party, Ms. Marshall?” the agent asked, looking at my joint booking. “No,” I said. “No need.” My phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from Derrick. [I used my name to check us into the cabin. When you get there, go to the front desk to register your ID.] [I let Sylvia take the master bedroom. Leave your spare keycard at the desk for her too, so she can get in and out easily.] I read the messages and clicked the screen off. This Alaskan cabin was something I had researched, planned, and paid for on my own. When Derrick found the booking, he had insisted that we go together to celebrate our fifth anniversary. But the moment Sylvia’s relationship fell apart, he claimed she would do something drastic if left alone in Seattle, and dragged her along. In the end, even my final destination had been handed over to her. I opened the travel app, accessed our shared itinerary, and quietly removed Derrick and Sylvia from the loop. From now on, only my name was tied to the reservations. Sylvia’s Instagram updated almost instantly. It was a photo of the first-class cabin window, Derrick’s jacket draped over her knees. The caption read: Thankfully, there are still people who understand my fragility. I closed the app, set my profile to private, and blocked her updates. My oncologist’s nurse called just as I was walking toward the new boarding gate. “Irene, do you have your pain management routine and the copies of your medical records with you? This is a long trip, and you cannot afford to push your limits.” “I have them,” I said softly. “Once you land in Fairbanks, please register with the local clinic immediately. And don’t forget to keep your signed palliative care directive in your bag.” “I won’t.” As I ended the call, I saw Derrick walking out of the VIP boarding tunnel. He must have realized I wasn’t on their flight. He looked around the terminal, his jaw set in a hard line. A second later, a text popped up. [Don’t bring your attitude all the way to Alaska, Irene. It’s exhausting.] The final boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. I switched my phone to silent, handed my ticket to the agent, and walked down the jet bridge. Derrick tried calling twice while I was walking down the aisle. The screen lit up against my palm until the flight attendants requested all devices be set to airplane mode. I turned the phone face down and let the quiet engine hum take over. By the time I landed in the frozen expanse of Fairbanks, it was six hours later than their arrival. Derrick hadn’t sent a single text asking if I had landed safely. There was only a pin drop of the cabin’s location. [Go to the desk when you get here.] I dragged my suitcase through the snow to the wooden lodge. The front desk host checked my reservation, pausing as he looked at the screen. “Ms. Marshall, the master suite is already occupied by the guests who arrived earlier.” “I know,” I said. But when I pushed open the heavy timber door of the cabin, my hand froze on the brass handle. Sylvia was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in the master suite, clutching the custom-embroidered linen pillow I had ordered months ago. Derrick was standing by the stone fireplace, adjusting the thermostat. He looked up as the door clicked. “You’re finally here,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of apology. “Sylvia’s anxiety flares up in the dark, so I told her she could take the master.” Sylvia stood up immediately, her eyes wide and watery. “Irene, I’m so sorry. I’m just so jumpy lately. If you’re angry, I can pack up and sleep on the floor.” Derrick’s hand went to her shoulder, holding her gently in place. “Don’t start. The doctor said you can’t get cold. It triggers your arrhythmia.” Then he looked at me. “Irene, the loft or the living room pull-out is fine. You slept on a cot when we went camping in the Cascades, didn’t you?” That camping trip. He had changed our hotel reservation at the last minute to save money for Sylvia’s birthday gift, leaving me to spend the night shivering in the back of an SUV with a low-grade fever. Later, he told his friends I was “wonderful” because I was “so low-maintenance.” I didn’t answer him. I only asked, “Where are my things?” Derrick pointed to the utility closet in the hallway. “I put them in there. Sylvia’s still raw from the breakup. Seeing all your couple stuff around was making her emotional.” I opened the narrow closet door. My white silk dress—the one I had bought specifically to wear under the Northern Lights—was shoved at the bottom of a plastic bin. My empty silver photo frame was wedged beneath a stack of extra blankets. The dress was supposed to be my final memory. The frame was meant for the last photo of myself. Derrick stepped up behind me and slid the closet door shut, not even glancing at the silk fabric peeking out. “I booked this cabin for three months,” I said, my voice flat. Derrick pulled at the collar of his sweater, looking annoyed. “I can Venmo you your half of the deposit, Irene. Don’t make this trip ugly over a room.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “No need.” He blinked, taken aback by my lack of argument. I grabbed my suitcase and turned back toward the front door. Derrick followed me into the snow-dusted hallway. “Where are you going?” “To get another room.” “Irene, stop wasting money. Your limit on the joint card isn’t that high.” “I’m using my own account.” The front desk host booked me into a small, basic single cabin at the far end of the property. When the transaction cleared on my personal card, Derrick’s face hardened. I quietly slipped the card back into my wallet. In the past, I had always run every expense through our shared account so he could track our budget. Now, there was no budget left to share. As I finished checking in, Sylvia emerged from the main lodge, clutching her phone. “Derrick, the tour guide said the ice lake looks beautiful tomorrow. I really want to take some photos to mark a fresh start.” Derrick immediately turned to me. “Irene, lend Sylvia your Leica.” I shifted my camera bag slightly behind my hip. “No.” Derrick’s face darkened. “She just wants to take a few photos to help her move on. Do you have to be this cold?” I tightened my grip on the canvas strap. That camera was the only thing I had left to complete my final project. I wanted to capture the green lights dancing across the sky, to capture myself standing in the snow one last time before the pain made it impossible to stand at all. Sylvia reached out, lightly tugging at his sleeve. “It’s fine, Derrick. Let’s not force her if she doesn’t want to.” But my refusal only made Derrick more defensive. “I’ve spoiled you too much, Irene. You’ve lost all sense of empathy.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I turned and walked down the wooden deck to my single room. That night, I sat at the small pine desk, filling out the legal forms for my palliative care directive. My phone rang. It was Derrick. I pressed accept. “Where are you?” his voice was sharp with panic. “Sylvia’s chest is tight. Come back and help me find her rescue inhaler and meds. I can’t find where you packed them.” I held the medical document in my hand, staring at the blank line next to Emergency Contact. For years, that line had always belonged to him. “Irene, don’t make me come look for you,” he snapped. I left the contact line blank. Instead, I saved the 24-hour hotline for the Fairbanks Palliative Care Center into my phone and set them as my primary emergency contact. When I walked back to the main cabin to drop off the rescue meds, the heavy oak door was slightly ajar. Derrick’s voice drifted out into the cold air. “Don’t worry about it. Irene won’t stay mad. She’s just stubborn. She always barks but never bites.” Sylvia’s voice was softer, hesitant. “But she looked so pale today, Derrick. What if she’s really mad?” “She does this every time she doesn’t get her way. She’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.” I stood on the porch, my hand resting on the cold metal handle. I pushed the door open. Derrick looked up from the sofa, pointing toward the kitchen. “You’re back. Go pour Sylvia some warm water. She’s still shaking.” “I don’t feel well,” I said. He scoffed, his brow furrowing. “Irene, stop using your health as an excuse the second you don’t get your way.” Sylvia sat huddled under a blanket, her hand pressed to her chest. “It’s okay, Derrick. I can get it.” “Stay put,” Derrick told her. Then he turned his gaze back to me, cold and demanding. “She has a chronic heart condition. Stress triggers her attacks. Can you please show some decency?” I didn’t move. I walked past him to the utility closet, reaching for my own small bag of medication. My fingers were so numb and stiff that the plastic bottle slipped, spilling small white tablets across the hardwood floor. Because Sylvia was closer, she bent down to help gather them. Her hand froze as she picked up the bottle. The prescription label read: Oncology Services – For Severe Chronic Pain Management. She stared at it, then quickly turned her back, pulling out her phone to search the drug name. When she looked back up, her face had gone entirely white. She looked at the master bedroom, then at Derrick, her lips parting but no sound coming out. I reached out my hand. “Give it back.” Sylvia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Irene… is this…” Derrick walked over, seeing her bent over the floor. “Irene, are you seriously letting a sick person clean up after you?” Sylvia clutched the bottle tight, her chest rising and falling. But when she met my cold, empty stare, she slowly handed the pills back to me. “I’m fine,” she murmured to Derrick. I swept the rest of the pills into my bag. “Don’t worry. I won’t be asking either of you for help again.” Derrick let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Right. The breakup threat. You really need to find a new routine, Irene. That threat stopped working a long time ago.” He had seen the thick medical folders on my home desk back in Seattle. But he had never bothered to open them. I looked up at him. “Derrick, I’m not threatening you.” “Then what are you doing?” he demanded, stepping closer. For years, I would have cried. I would have explained how much my bones ached, how the chemotherapy had failed, how much I needed him to just hold me. But tonight, I only felt a vast, peaceful emptiness. “Just taking my medicine,” I said. His expression hardened, but he didn’t say another word. Back in my single room, I logged into our joint bank account and systematically transferred my personal savings out. I itemized every single transaction in the memo line: My share of rent. My plane ticket. My cabin deposit. My camera gear. Just as I finished, a soft knock sounded on my door. I opened it to find Sylvia standing in the freezing wind, her coat clutched tightly around her neck. She looked past me into the small, bare room, her eyes landing on the medical documents on the desk. “Irene… are you dying?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. I didn’t answer. She took a shaky step forward. “Why haven’t you told him? If he knew—” “I tried,” I said, my voice flat. I tried on the afternoon of my biopsy, but he was driving her to an appointment. I tried the day of my prognosis, but she had called him crying about her ex, and he had left me in the clinic parking lot. When I finally left the papers on our desk, he told me he was too tired to deal with my “drama.” Eventually, I just stopped trying. Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but Derrick’s voice cut through the dark from the main path. “Sylvia? What are you doing out here in the cold?” Sylvia flinched, her fingers clenching her sleeves. Derrick strode over, pulling her gently behind him. He glared at me. “Irene, what did you say to her now? Do you have to ruin every single night of this trip?” I looked at his hand wrapped protectively around her wrist. I didn’t bother to correct him. Sylvia looked up at him, her voice trembling. “No, Derrick, it’s not like that. I just…” She looked at me, saw the absolute lack of hope in my eyes, and swallowed her words. “I’m just cold. Let’s go back.” Derrick’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He looked at me, his tone still sharp. “The Northern Lights photography tour is booked for tomorrow morning. Don’t ruin it for everyone.” “What about my private session reservation?” I asked. “We’ll figure that out tomorrow.” The next morning, I walked to the lodge registration desk. The host looked up from his computer, his expression sympathetic. “Ms. Marshall, the private photography slot under your reservation has been transferred to Sylvia.” I stood at the desk, the cold air from the doorway washing over me. I had booked that specific slot three months ago, planning to wear my white silk dress and capture one final portrait of myself before the disease took my body. Derrick walked into the lobby, his hands in his pockets. “I changed the name.” “Why?” “Sylvia needs something beautiful to look back on from this trip,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “She needs a fresh start, Irene. It’s just a photo shoot. Stop making everything a federal case.” To him, every dream I had ever nurtured could be brushed aside to make room for her comfort. Sylvia stood a few paces behind him, looking down at her boots. “Derrick, maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t need the pictures that badly.” “Don’t do that,” Derrick said, his voice softening as he turned to her. “You always put others first.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel the heat of anger anymore, only the cold certainty of an ending. I went back to my room, packed my suitcase, and walked back to the front desk to check out. Derrick, who had been waiting in the lobby, blocked my path. “Now where are you going?” “Away.” “To another resort?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Fine. Go. But I’m not chasing you this time, Irene. I mean it.” I placed my keycard on the counter. The host looked at me, hesitant. “Ms. Marshall, are you sure you want to cancel the rest of your three-month stay?” “I’m sure.” Sylvia came running out of the main cabin, her hands trembling as she held out my bag of rescue medication. “Irene, please. How much time do you actually have?” I took the medicine from her. “Don’t tell him.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Why? He deserves to know.” “Because,” I said, looking at the shuttle van pulling up to the curb, “I don’t want my last memory of him to be him telling me I’m just acting out for attention.” Sylvia lowered her head, silent. As I climbed into the van, I could see Derrick through the window of the lodge, holding up two different winter jackets, helping Sylvia decide which one would look better in her photos. Before the van reached the main highway, I pulled out my phone and sent him one last text. [Derrick, let’s end this. We’re done.] Then, I blocked his number. By evening, Derrick finally realized I wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t reach my phone, and our shared travel itinerary was completely blank. He stormed into the front desk of the lodge. “Where did Irene Marshall go?” The host checked the system, looking up with a quiet, solemn expression. “Mr. Miller, when Ms. Marshall checked out, she dropped this transport slip. Since you were listed as her secondary contact on the initial booking, I assumed you knew.” Derrick snatched the paper from his hand. There were only two lines printed on the receipt: Passenger: Irene Marshall. Return flight canceled. Destination: Fairbanks Palliative Care & Hospice Retreat.
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