When Liam loved me most, I broke up with him. Our next meeting was an accident. He, in his Porsche, hit me, riding a rental bike. I stared at the ripped knee of my jeans, clutching the critical prognosis in my hand. When Liam stepped out of his car, his assistant was right behind him, holding a large umbrella to shield him from the sun. In the sweltering heat of June, he looked perfectly composed, while I was drenched in sweat. He was impeccably dressed in a suit, his expression cold and stern, exuding the polished arrogance of a rising mogul. He was no longer the gentle, carefree Liam I’d known just a year ago. I quietly picked myself up from the ground, wiped sweat from my brow, and quickly hobbled to gather the scattered papers, clutching them tightly. They were my medical reports, with the hospital’s logo clearly visible. But thankfully, Liam’s face was etched with impatience; he didn’t notice them at all. I breathed a sigh of relief.
He still carried that subtle, clean scent. Once, it was the laundry detergent I picked out for him. Now, I supposed, it was an expensive cologne. I greedily inhaled, then patted the dust off my elbow. A scrape on my knee had broken the skin, and a trickle of blood began to seep through, just like my heart. A searing, bone-deep ache spread through me, densely covering my whole body. We were, inevitably, drifting further and further apart. “Ma’am, would you like me to take you to the hospital?” his assistant asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I shook my head, saying I was fine. Just a scrape, a bit of antiseptic would fix it. In such a stark contrast, I didn’t want to stay any longer, nor did I want to see his new, indifferent gaze. “So, how much compensation do you need? Just name your price,” Liam said, pulling a wad of cash from his wallet. I glanced at Liam, who stood by, head down, and started to right my bike, preparing to leave. “What, not enough?” Liam scoffed, mocking me, his icy gaze sending a chill straight through my chest. His words were a bullet to my heart, tearing a gaping hole where the icy wind now roared. It was true. A year ago, I had dumped him when he loved me most. No matter how he pleaded, even if he knelt on the ground, I remained unmoved. So, his current coldness was understandable. I forced a strained smile, my voice raspy, like gravel grinding, “A thousand dollars? How is that enough?” He laughed then, a bitter, angry sound. He snatched the wallet from his assistant, pulled out a check, scribbled across it, and flicked it at my face. The edge of the check stung my cheek before fluttering to the ground, just like my dignity. I fought to control my emotions, keeping my face blank, and bent down to pick it up. I didn’t want to linger, afraid he’d see through me, or that I’d break down. As I quickly turned to leave, Liam’s voice cut through the air behind me. “Willow, do you regret it? Do you regret your decision, looking like this now?” Every word was a dagger to my heart. My heart felt like it was bleeding. Back then, when he had nothing, I broke up with him. I told him I was tired of scraping by, tired of the struggle. I couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t keep going through hard times with him. His project was at a critical stage then. If it succeeded, he would join the ranks of rising moguls. He cried and begged me not to break up, promising he’d have money soon, that I wouldn’t suffer anymore. He pleaded agonizingly, knelt and grabbed my legs, even threatening to harm himself if I left. But I left anyway, resolute, moving out of our apartment, blocking all his contacts, and ignoring his new calls and texts. I met his pleas with cutting sarcasm. Now, he had succeeded. He drove expensive luxury cars, looking sharp and composed even in the scorching heat. And I? I wore the cheapest shirt, pedaling my rental bike under the scorching sun, drenched in sweat. But I didn’t regret it. Not one bit. Because I was dying. My doctor said I only had three months left, at most. At that thought, I held back my tears and softly said, “No, I don’t regret it.” I desperately choked back a sob, then hobbled away. I couldn’t see Liam’s expression behind me, but as soon as I entered the subway, I burst into tears. I pounded my chest, but it did nothing. Staring at my medical file, I raged at the universe. Why me? I was only twenty-five. Liam and I had so many dreams, a beautiful future. Now it was all dust. Strangers stared, a mix of curiosity and indifference, as I completely fell apart.
After a night of quiet grief, I thought that was our last meeting. But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. The very next day, I ran into him again at the hospital. He was supporting a beautiful woman, her stomach slightly rounded, as they waited in line outside the OB-GYN clinic. My mind went blank, my heart seized up. Before I could even react, my body moved on its own. I quickly backed away, hiding behind a wall. Peeking through the crack, I saw Liam, tall and broad-shouldered, his profile still impossibly handsome. The woman beside him was graceful, with just a slight bump showing, her skin glowing with health. They looked perfect together. I clutched my chemo schedule and turned to the correct floor. I’d never made a mistake before, but today, a cruel coincidence had led me to this sight. Perhaps the universe was telling me my choice had been right, my decision not wrong. It was good. His happiness was exactly what I wanted, wasn’t it? I wiped away my tears and took a deep breath. After my chemotherapy, I walked towards the hospital exit in a daze. Suddenly, someone came out of a side corridor and bumped into me. I steadied myself and looked closely. It was Liam, and the pregnant woman beside him. He carefully steadied the woman, then looked at me with a frown of blame. “Watch where you’re going.” *But she bumped into me, didn’t she?* I thought indignantly, biting my lip so hard to keep from losing control in front of him. I didn’t want to prolong the encounter, so I mumbled an apology and turned to leave. But the woman spoke softly, “Liam, it was my fault. I wasn’t watching. Why are you blaming her?” Liam shot me an icy glance. “I was afraid she’d try to make a scene.” My heart tightened. The woman gave Liam a gentle, chiding look, clearly disapproving. “This lady looks very kind. How can you say that? Apologize to her.” Liam looked at me with a half-smile, saying nothing. I awkwardly waved my hand, indicating it was fine, and quickly bolted out the door. Only once I was far away did I let out a heavy breath. Seeing the man I loved with his wife, showing such affection to her while giving me a cold shoulder – the feeling was unbearable. Most painful of all, I had once seen and felt his tender gaze, imagined our married life, a life with children. No, stop thinking about it. I slapped my cheeks, trying to clear my head. But just as I started to feel a little clearer, sadness overwhelmed me again as I scanned for a rental bike. From a distance, I saw Liam helping the woman into a car. Unlike the luxury sports car from last time, this one was different, more practical and comfortable, likely for the pregnant woman. But it was just as high-end. Liam carefully placed his hand on the door frame, shielding her head so she wouldn’t bump it. Once she was settled, he gently closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. I watched, numb with sorrow. Suddenly, Liam looked up in my direction. Though he was far away, I still ducked my head like I’d been caught doing something wrong, scanned the code, and cycled away. It was almost eight in the evening when I returned to my apartment. I looked at the ghost of a woman staring back at me from the mirror, and forced a strained smile. My last three months. I didn’t want to give up. Even if I had no family left in this world. I cooked myself a hearty dinner, ate until I was full, tidied up my apartment, and went to bed promptly at ten. Usually, it took an hour or two of pain before I could fall asleep, but tonight my body was unusually calm. Perhaps the universe was finally taking pity on me. That night, I had a dream I hadn’t had in ages. I dreamed of freshman year, when I saw him, tall and handsome, at orientation and instantly fell for him. I launched into a relentless, borderline shameless pursuit. He went from being completely indifferent to slowly getting used to my presence. At his big lecture classes, his roommates, who used to just watch our little drama unfold, started saving a seat next to him for me. And he, well, he never said anything, but he knew. One time, I skipped his early morning class, choosing to sleep in my dorm. He texted me, *What happened? Why aren’t you here?* I was in such a deep sleep that I didn’t hear several messages come in. After class, he called. I answered, groggy and my voice thick with sleep, clearly having just woken up. He got so angry he hung up without saying a word. Later, I learned from his roommates that because I hadn’t shown up or replied to his texts, he thought something had happened to me. He was distracted throughout class, and even his favorite calculus professor publicly scolded him, saying he shouldn’t let love interfere with his studies. “How could the top student, the absolute academic superstar, be derailed by a clingy groupie?” He snapped back at the professor, his face tight with anger, right there in front of everyone: “She’s not a groupie. She’s my girlfriend.” After class, he immediately called me, worried sick, only to find out I was just sleeping. He was in a silent huff for ages after that, refusing to talk to me. Later, on a walk, I said, “Didn’t you say I was your girlfriend? Why are you giving your girlfriend the cold shoulder?” He just glanced at me, neither denying nor confirming. I puffed out my cheeks, pretending to be annoyed, and loudly declared, “Since you’re not denying it, you’re my boyfriend starting today!” He didn’t argue. He looked calm on the surface, but the flush creeping up his ears gave him away. Seeing his eyes filled only with me, I felt a rush of heat and leaned in to kiss him. It was early March, the air just turning warm. A crescent moon hung above, mirroring his surging, yet restrained, affection. The willows by the road were just budding, fragile and new, just like our love. After a moment of stunned surprise, he held me tight and said seriously, “I’ll never let go of you, and you must never leave me.” I nodded vigorously in his arms. He always kept his word. For the next seven years, he cherished me, indulging my every whim. But I was the one who broke my word.
I woke up crying from the dream, a crushing wave of loneliness enveloped me, making me curl up and sob uncontrollably. I quickly pulled the comforter over my head, terrified of my sobs carrying to the next apartment. I didn’t need another complaint. I allowed myself to miss Liam – his eyes, his smile, his doting affection, the way he would lose control and kiss me. The result of this indulgence was a fierce dressing down from the doctor the next day at the hospital. “You know your condition, staying up all night is terrible for you. It’s been almost a year, why are you still not listening?” I smiled sheepishly, promising profusely that I wouldn’t do it again. The doctor knew, of course. Waking up in pain was common, and sleepless nights unavoidable. It was just that my complexion looked particularly terrible today. After chemotherapy, passing the third-floor OB-GYN clinic, I couldn’t help but glance over. No Liam. I felt a strange sense of loss. Every meeting from now on would be one less. Even if it was unpleasant, I was willing to see him one more time. As I turned to walk downstairs, feeling disheartened, I ran straight into Liam, who was returning with some reports. He looked surprised to see me, then his face hardened. But unlike yesterday’s disdain, he uncharacteristically asked, “Why are you back at the hospital?” Two days in a row at the hospital had clearly raised his suspicions. Thankfully, I had my bag today, and the payment slips were inside. I shook my head, lying, “Ryan’s sick. I came to pick up his medication.” At Ryan’s name, Liam’s face grew cold, and he sneered, “Your face looks terrible. Is he dead or something, that you’re picking up his medicine?” I touched my sunken cheek, unable to answer. He scoffed, “Willow, this is the good man you chose after you threw me aside.” Yes, back then, when I broke up with him, he pleaded desperately and refused to believe me. So I told him I’d found someone better, that I was going to be with Ryan. Ryan, in his eyes, was the catalyst for my abandonment, the proof of my betrayal. “Looking at you now, do you really not regret it?” As he passed me, he suddenly turned his head to look at me, his eyes sharp, as if trying to pierce through my gaze to find the answer he wanted. I dodged his eyes, looking down in silence. Footsteps echoed as he gradually walked away. I don’t know why, but tears suddenly gushed out. I choked with sobs, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by an unseen hand. Liam hadn’t gone far, and afraid he’d hear me, I roughly wiped my tears with my sleeve and rushed out of the hospital. Perhaps it was fate, but when I went to a nearby restaurant for lunch, I ran into Liam again. He was, as usual, helping the pregnant woman, pulling out her chair, and bringing her warm water once she was seated. He was attentive to her every need, a truly enviable sight. Eating my bland meal, I suddenly remembered a night in junior year when I had a high fever. Liam, I don’t know how he found out, came to my dorm building late at night and took me to the emergency room for an IV drip. We sat there, and he touched my burning forehead, clearly worried sick, but I couldn’t stop smiling. I watched him bring me warm water, wring out a cloth to wipe my forehead and arms, bustling around, trying to bring my fever down. I was so happy, I almost didn’t want to get better. Even the night nurse envied me, saying, “Your boyfriend is so good to you.” I giggled, replying, “He is! He makes me want to be sick all the time.” He glared at me playfully, “Who wishes for illness?” I cheekily stuck out my tongue, earning a light flick on the forehead. The faint taste of tomato in my mouth interrupted my thoughts. *Well, now I really am always sick,* I thought, mocking myself. *Serves me right for jinxing myself.*
I hastily gobbled down a few bites of food and left the restaurant. They were far away, and hadn’t seen me. I decided to go visit Ryan in the inpatient ward. He wasn’t actually a better catch. He was just like me, a cancer patient. A year ago, he was also in the mid-to-late stages. Now, I had three months left, and he only had one. He was bedridden, confined to his hospital bed. Thankfully, his family had some money and could afford it. When I arrived, his mother was sitting alone in the hallway outside his room, silently wiping away tears. He was her only son, from a loving family. The news of his cancer had devastated them, leaving them in constant tears. A mother burying her son—her heart must be breaking. I went and sat quietly beside her, saying nothing. Comfort, at this point, was futile. When she composed herself a little, she took my hand and said, “Thank you, child.” I shook my head, softly saying there was no need to thank me. Entering Ryan’s room, I saw he was even more emaciated than last week, a skeletal figure hooked up to countless tubes, a stark contrast to the man I’d met a year ago. Some might think, *what’s the point of living like this? Better to just die and be done with it.* I used to think that too. But after getting sick, I didn’t anymore. We all have people we care about in this world, and even when we know the end is coming, we still feel fear. We dread the despair in our loved ones’ eyes. We cling to hope, wondering if the universe might open its eyes and grant us a miracle. I chatted with him for a while, then said goodbye in the evening and walked towards my apartment. Passing by the inpatient rooms, one after another, I saw them filled with patients suffering from various illnesses. They were all so quiet, so still, as if someone might die any moment. Their families sat on the hallway chairs, their expressions sorrowful yet numb. I had witnessed this scene hundreds, thousands of times. I no longer broke down in tears like I used to. I could even crack a dark joke about it and manage a laugh. But when I saw Liam standing outside my apartment, I stopped laughing. His expression was unreadable, a strange mix of anger and torment. As I approached, I realized he looked as distant as he had earlier. I took out my keys to open the door and asked, “Can I help you?” The lock clicked, and at the same moment, his hand covered mine, stopping me from opening the door. His touch was cool, unlike before. His hands used to be faintly warm, like a small furnace in winter. I always loved to hold them to warm my own. “Willow, do you truly never regret it?” he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and raspy, like an old bellows. Hearing that familiar name from his lips, I almost broke down in tears. I clenched my jaw, calming myself for a few seconds, before finding my voice again. “What is there to regret?” “I know everything.” My heart tightened. *What did he know? Did he know I didn’t have much time left?* Liam said, “Ryan has cancer. He’s dying soon.” I let out a breath. *Good, good, he still doesn’t know.* I looked up, meeting his eyes directly. “Yes, he’s dying. What does that have to do with you?” Liam avoided my gaze, then asked with difficulty, “You wanted to find someone better. Am I not a ‘better catch’ than Ryan?” I froze, unsure what he meant. He looked directly at me again. “You think that ‘accident’ that day was just a coincidence?” “I saw you that day. I immediately told my driver to ‘accidentally’ hit you. Running into you at the hospital later was pure chance, but the next day, I deliberately waited there. I was gambling on whether you’d show up again. I swore to myself that if you did, I would follow you, not let you disappear again. I wanted to seize the chance the universe gave me. I watched you visit Ryan. He’s dying, isn’t he? So, can we… can we start over?” I stared at his lips, moving up and down, my mind a complete blur. Oh, how I wanted to throw myself into his arms, to hold him tight, to unload all the suffering I’d endured, to tell him about the fear of dying and the terror of lonely nights. But I couldn’t. It had been a year. I’d already committed to this lie. I couldn’t let all my efforts be for nothing now, not in my last three months. “We can’t go back, Liam. What’s done is done. Let go.” At that moment, I was surprised by how calm my voice was, not betraying a hint of my turmoil. Liam’s eyes turned red. He wouldn’t give up. “I don’t believe you don’t love me anymore, I don’t believe it. You must have a reason you can’t tell me. Your interaction with Ryan today was clearly not like a couple. You’re lying to me, Willow. Tell me the truth, tell me!” I pleaded with him to stop. “Liam, the past is the past, no matter the reason.” “Is there… no chance at all?” I shook my head firmly, my voice resolute. “No.” Silent tears streamed down Liam’s face. He didn’t wipe them away, letting them mix with his lips. Oh, how I longed to kiss him. To keep myself from losing control, I quickly slipped inside and slammed the door shut. Behind the closed door, I collapsed, sobbing silently, my insides tearing apart. It felt like my organs had been ripped out, then shoved back in, raw and bleeding. The next day, I went to the hospital for chemotherapy, as usual, with dark circles under my eyes. This time, the doctor just sighed and said nothing. He probably figured I didn’t have much time left, so there was no point in saying anything more.
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