I have late-stage cancer. The doctor told me not to leave any regrets. The first person I thought of was my ex-husband, whom I hadn't seen in ten years. I started calling him, one number after another, until one finally connected. "I'm dying. Can you come see me one last time?" The man on the other end of the line was silent, unmoved. I couldn't help the sob that broke from my throat. "Can you just be with me... just for three days... I'm begging you..." "Please... Ethan... say something..." "Say something!" The line went dead. I sat in the dark, hollowed out by despair, until the sun came up. Then, a storm broke, and the doorbell rang. 1. The ringing was frantic, insistent. I scrambled to my feet, knocking a bottle of pills to the floor. When I yanked the door open, a FedEx delivery guy was standing there, his impatient expression freezing on his face. "Uh... hi... package for you..." he stammered. He thrust the package into my hands and practically ran down the hall. I looked out at the empty corridor and laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. In the middle of a hurricane warning, who else but a delivery driver would come to my door? I picked up the package. Then I heard it. Drip. Drip. I turned around slowly. Soaked to the bone, Ethan was standing at the end of the hall. The wind howled outside. I suddenly remembered a line from a movie. The people who love you will walk through a hurricane to find you. And he was here. Did that mean... he still loved me? But his first words shattered that fantasy. "Maya," he said, his voice flat and cold. "We've been divorced for ten years. I need you to stop bothering me." Ten years. And with a single sentence, he made me lose my mind. I lunged forward, trying to grab the sleeve of his wet jacket, wanting to scream at him. Why? Why could you just leave? Why did you disappear for a decade without a word? But before I could speak, the tears came, hot and traitorous. All I could manage to sob out was, "How could you..." His expression didn't flicker. "Maya, calm down." The electronic lock on the door across the hall beeped. "Password incorrect. Please try again." My neighbor glanced over, her face pale, and I wondered how much she'd heard. 2. I wiped my eyes and forced a professional, customer-service smile. "I'm so sorry, we didn't mean to disturb you..." Her face went even whiter. She fumbled with the keypad, finally got the password right, and slammed the door shut behind her. The hallway fell silent. I turned back to Ethan. He walked towards me, the only sound the squelch of his wet shoes on the tile. He sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion. "Let's talk inside." Before I could react, he squeezed past me through the door, bringing the damp, cold smell of the storm with him. It was the one-bedroom apartment we had bought together. The decor, the paint, the furniture—it was all chosen to our tastes back then. I hadn't changed a thing in ten years. Now, it all just looked painfully outdated. Ethan stood in the entryway, not moving. The living room was a mess, littered with takeout containers and pill bottles. It radiated the same air of decay that I did. He frowned, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of pity. But when he spoke, his voice was as distant as ever. "Maya, stop harassing me. We're adults. Can't we just have a clean break? Be civil about this?" No. I looked up at him and smiled, a cruel, ugly thing. "I'm dying. What do I need civility for?" 3. It started with a dull ache in my stomach. I ignored it, figured it would pass. I got used to the pain, the same way I'd gotten used to the years without him. Until I collapsed at my desk one afternoon. I woke up to the smell of antiseptic. A coworker had dropped me at the ER and gone back to work. From then on, I was alone, going from one test to another. By the time it was my turn to see the oncologist, he was packing up to go home. He'd been frowning and brusque all day, but suddenly his voice became gentle. He saw my dry lips and even had a nurse bring me a glass of water. The room became quiet, the only sound the distant wail of a siren. From the looks on their faces, I already knew. Cancer. The strange thing was, when I heard the word, I felt... a sense of relief. Like a heavy weight had finally been lifted. I did what I was told. I checked into the hospital. I set up a video call with my family. I tried to keep my voice light as I told them. I have cancer. But don't worry, I'm already in the hospital. You should all get checked, just in case. That night is a blur of my parents' weeping, my sister's choked sobs, and my brother's long, heavy silence. Then came the treatment. The endless needles, pills, chemo. The vomiting, the hair loss, the indignity of losing control of my own body. The face in the mirror grew more sunken each day. At first, people visited. The fruit baskets in my room were constantly being replaced. Then, slowly, the visitors stopped coming. The fruit started to rot. The doctor's voice grew softer and softer. "Maya," he said one day. "Is there anything special you've always wanted to do?" The question hung in the air, thick with pity. I looked down at my hands, now just skin and bone. How can a person waste away so quickly? Something I wanted to do? Besides just wanting it all to be over, there was only one thing. I wanted to see Ethan. One more time. Just one more time. 4. A sudden cramp seized my stomach. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. The pain was so intense I had to brace myself against the wall, but I refused to take my painkillers. I just pressed hard against my abdomen, waiting for the wave to pass. Ethan just watched me, his eyes full of skepticism. My body was shaking violently. "You don't believe me? You think I'd lie about dying to get you here?" I practically threw myself at the coffee table and ripped open the drawer. I pulled everything out and dumped it on the table for him to see. The diagnosis, stacks of medical bills, lab reports, even my insurance statements. "Look," I sobbed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. "Open your eyes and look! See if I'm lying to you!" "See? I'm dying. I'm really, truly dying." He looked down at the mountain of paper. I stared at his face, desperate to see something. Sadness? Pain? He just kept his head bowed, his expression hidden from me. "What is it you really want?" My voice dropped to a whisper, filled with a self-loathing humility. "Three days with you." My throat was tight. "Just three days... After that, I'll never bother you again..." We stood there, locked in a silent battle. Finally, he yielded. He sighed. "Does it start today?" Just then, the hurricane passed. A single ray of sunlight cut through the clouds and into the room. The sky was clearing. It was as if even the heavens were taking pity on me. 5. I washed my face and stared at my reflection. Sunken eyes, sallow skin. Behind me, his reflection was still handsome, still young. It seemed time had only taken its toll on me. It wasn't fair. The ones who break your heart always seem to get off easy. I put on my wig and hastily applied some makeup. The plate-glass windows of the mall reflected our images as we walked, him always a few steps ahead of me, his face a cold mask. He wouldn't get close. He wouldn't touch me. I looked down at our shadows on the pavement. I reached out my hand and let my shadow-hand touch his. At least my shadow wouldn't pull away. We went to a movie. The same theater as our first date. The moment the lights went down, the memories flooded back. His warm hand, cautiously reaching for mine in the dark. Once he held it, he never let go. I didn't have to see his face to know how red he was blushing. Now, I slowly reached out, trying to touch his hand on the armrest. He snatched it back as if he'd been burned and shoved it in his pocket. My hand was left hanging in the empty space between us. Tears fell, big and heavy. I couldn't stop them. On the screen, the lovers were kissing. In the dark, I was weeping. And beside me, he was silent. 6. After the movie, we went to dinner. An old place we used to go to all the time. I'd booked our usual table by the window. I ordered his favorites—steamed pork ribs and a spicy Cajun pasta. I carefully wiped down a set of silverware and handed it to him, then ordered another for myself. He stared out the window, ignoring me. I didn't care. I just started talking. Talking about how the restaurant had been renovated and lost its charm, about how the owner had changed, about how the prices had gone up... He never responded. But I kept talking. I hadn't spoken to him in so long. Even if he didn't listen, I wanted to tell him everything about my last ten years. The food arrived, steaming hot. I pushed the plate of ribs towards him. "Eat." He didn't even look at it. "I don't like this stuff anymore." It felt like a needle driving straight into my heart. I picked up a rib and put it in my mouth. I chewed. Tasteless. I couldn't taste a thing. Swallowing felt like swallowing glass. He didn't like it, but I did. He didn't remember the taste, but I did. And now, I couldn't taste it at all. I started shoveling the pasta into my mouth. Forkful after forkful. The food mixed with my tears as I forced it down. My stomach churned. I clamped my hand over my mouth and ran for the trash can in the corner. "Ohh—" Everything I had just eaten came back up, mixed with bile and tears. A waiter rushed over with water and napkins. "Ma'am, are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?" I was shaking too hard to speak, just managing to shake my head. "I'm... I'm fine... I'm so... sorry... about the mess..." "It's okay, it's okay, we'll clean it," he said gently. "Don't worry, let me help you up..." When I finally managed to stand, I saw that Ethan was already outside, a blurry figure through the rain-streaked glass. 7. I rushed to pay the bill, terrified he would just leave. "Ethan!" He looked at me, keeping his distance. "Where to next?" My throat still burned. "The waterfront... let's go to the waterfront." We went to the old city bridge. It was mostly deserted now; everyone went to the new, flashy pedestrian bridge nearby. "Do you remember this place?" I asked, watching a ferry glide across the dark water. "This is where you told me you loved me." He frowned. "That was a long time ago. Let's not talk about it." I was going to talk about it. "Our first date. First the movie, at that same theater. Then dinner, at that same restaurant. You saved up for weeks to order the most expensive thing on the menu..." I paused. "Was it good? Did it... taste the same as you remember?" "I don't know," he said. "I didn't eat." "...Oh." My voice was a whisper. "Right." And we'll never have the chance to eat it again. A ferry passed under the bridge, and I remembered that night. He didn't want to go home, holding me tight, saying we'd leave after the next boat passed. We watched them come and go until the sky was completely dark. A cold wind blew, and I shivered. Was the wind that cold that night? I pointed to another approaching ferry, its lights twinkling on the water. "Let's go home after that one passes." The boat slid beneath us, a floating island of light and laughter. They looked so happy. I was so envious. That night, a nightmare woke me. I ran out of the bedroom, my heart pounding. It wasn't until I saw the dark shape of him on the sofa that I could breathe again. His breathing was so quiet. I crept closer, wanting to touch him, but I was afraid I'd wake him. Suddenly, the pain hit again, a brutal, twisting agony in my abdomen. I curled into a ball on the floor, biting my lip to keep from screaming. Cold sweat and tears streamed down my face. My vision started to blur. Ethan, it hurts so much. Why won't you come hold me? 8. When I opened my eyes, it was the next day. The sun was bright. Ethan was sitting on the sofa, watching me in silence. I scrambled to get ready, and we rushed to a bridal shop. I carefully looked through the dresses. We were so poor back then, we just signed the papers at the courthouse. We had finally made it, bought the house, bought the car... and we were planning the wedding when we got divorced. I held up a mermaid-style dress. "Is this one pretty?" He leaned against the doorframe. "Yeah, sure," he said, not even looking. I picked up another, a classic A-line. "What about this one?" "Whatever. They're all fine." I stopped asking. I chose a simple, elegant satin dress and a classic black tux. I bought them both. From there, we went to a small, private photography studio with great reviews. I asked Ethan to change into the tux. He refused. "I said I'd spend three days with you. I never said I'd take pictures." "You won't?" I asked, holding the suit. "No." Fine. I didn't have the energy to fight him anymore. The makeup artist was a miracle worker. She managed to make me look almost healthy. But as she was styling my hair, she tugged a little too hard. My wig shifted, pulling out a few of the sparse, precious strands I had left. She was horrified. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry... I wasn't even pulling... I..." "It's okay," I reassured her. "It's not your fault. My hair just falls out easily. Just do what you need to do." After that, she was impossibly gentle. In the studio, the photographer looked from me to the empty space beside me. "Where's the groom?" 9. I glanced at Ethan, who was standing behind the photographer, looking like he was waiting for me to be humiliated. I forced a smile. "He... uh... he didn't want to be in the photos. It'll just be me." The photographer's expression changed instantly. "It's okay," I said, my voice breezy. "You can just Photoshop him in later. I brought pictures of him. I'll pay extra." I only took one photo, but I booked the entire team for the day. The rest of the time was for post-production. I gave the photos of Ethan and the tux to the young graphic designer. "Can you put him in here, please? Thank you." The kid glanced at the photo, then at me. "Yeah, okay." I stood behind him, pointing at the screen, trying to recreate the Ethan from my memory. "He needs to be taller. He's six foot one." "His shoulders are broader than that." "His skin should be a little lighter." "His face... it's a little thinner than in that photo..." The designer's mouse clicks got faster, his brow furrowed. Finally, he slammed the mouse down. "Look, lady! I'm not a magician! Why didn't you just bring the guy with you? This is impossible!" His voice was sharp. I glanced at Ethan, who was watching the scene with detached amusement. My voice shrank. "He didn't want to come." The air went still. The studio manager rushed over and smacked the designer on the back of the head. "What did I tell you about your attitude?" He then turned to me, his voice oozing apology. "Miss, I am so sorry. He's new. Please, don't be upset. You tell him exactly what you want, and he'll keep working until you're satisfied." The young man muttered under his breath, "Fine, I'll fix it." I smiled and said it was okay. Then I remembered something else. "Could you do one more photo for me? A five-by-seven. Black and white. Just of me." The designer's mouse stopped moving. The manager's smile froze. "...Black and white?" 10. I nodded. "Yes. And a simple black frame. Can you... make me look nice? I think... it will probably be for the memorial service." I found a photo from ten years ago on my phone. In it, a vibrant, happy girl was snuggled up against a man whose face was filled with adoration. "I didn't... always look like this," I whispered. I sent the picture to the designer. He stared at it, speechless. The manager smacked him again. "You see? You better do a good job or you'll be having nightmares!" The designer's voice was full of guilt when he spoke again. "Ma'am, you just tell me what to change. A little thinner here? Add some color to your cheeks?" On the screen, the Photoshopped me stood in a white wedding dress, my eyes bright. Beside me stood a carefully crafted image of Ethan, wearing a handsome tux, his eyes full of love. It looked just like us, ten years ago. "It's perfect," I said softly. "It looks just like the old me. Thank you." They both insisted they could make it even better and would have it delivered the next day. The kindness of strangers is a strange and beautiful thing. Since my diagnosis, the whole world had shown me compassion. Everyone except him. I looked over at Ethan, sitting alone in the corner. My phone rang. It was my mom. "Maya, sweetie..." her voice was cautious. "The hospital said you checked yourself out?" "Mmmhmm." "Well... why don't you come home? Your brother and sister are both here." "Okay," I agreed. "And Mom? I'm bringing Ethan with me. Can you make some of his favorite dishes?" There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, she stammered, "Oh... okay... yes, of course, honey. You two... be safe on the road..." 11. After we left the studio, I told Ethan, "We're going to my parents' house for dinner tonight." He was leaning against the wall, half his face in shadow. "And show up as what? Your ex-husband? Maya, we're divorced. It's been ten years. It's not appropriate." I remembered how my parents had never really approved of him. When they found out his family was from a poor, rural town and he had three siblings, they immediately tried to set me up with other people. "Maya, I've been there," my mom had said. "I don't want you to struggle the way I did." I had slammed the door and screamed at her. Later, Ethan found out. He wasn't angry. He just held me. "She's not wrong, you know," he said. "If I had a daughter, I'd want her to have an easy life, not struggle with some poor kid." He smoothed my hair. "Don't be mad at your parents. It's my fault for not being good enough yet. But thank you for believing in me, Maya. I'll work hard. I promise I'll give you a good life." And he did. He worked insane hours, was on call 24/7. In five years, he was a director of engineering. He made six figures, bought a house and a car, and put both in my name. He achieved the kind of success the world respects. My parents never had another objection. He was better to them than I was, always reminding me to call home. I looked at him now. "Mom just turned sixty. Are you really not going to go? You always used to say I didn't care enough about them. You said..." He cut me off sharply. "Enough! Stop it! You want me to go, right?" He let out a humorless laugh. "Fine. I'll go. Just don't regret it." How could I regret it? We were finally going home together. I pushed open the door to my childhood home. "Mom, Dad! We're home!" 12. "You're back!" my sister called out. Everyone turned to look at us. The house went silent, except for the hum of the kitchen fan. "Come... come sit down!" my brother finally said, his voice strained. "Let's... let's eat!" I glanced at Ethan and motioned for him to sit next to me. But my brother slid into the seat first. I pushed him gently. "Hey! That's for your brother-in-law..." The words hung in the air. The room got even quieter. The spoon in my mother's hand clattered into the soup bowl. My brother jumped up as if shocked. "Oh! Right, right! For my brother-in-law! Sit down, man, sit down!" He grabbed a bottle of wine and started to pour it into Ethan's glass. "Here, man! Have a drink! Long time no see!" I watched Ethan's face. His jaw was clenched. I quickly put my hand over the glass. "He can't drink!" My brother's hand froze. "Oh... right! Coke! He can drink Coke!" He scrambled to get a soda. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the table. Steamed fish, boiled shrimp, vegetable soup... all bland, healthy food. "Mom," I complained. "Why is everything so plain? You know Ethan loves spicy food..." Before I could finish, my mother covered her face with her hands. A muffled sob escaped through her fingers. "Why is Grandma crying?" my little nephew asked, his face turning red with anger as he looked at me. "Auntie is mean! You made Grandma cry!" "No, sweetie, I didn't," I tried to explain. "I just meant, when we have a guest, we should make food the guest likes..." "He's not a guest! He's not here!" my nephew shrieked. "Grandma said Auntie is sick! And she's imagining things! There is no Uncle Ethan! Uncle Ethan is gone! He..." Smack! My sister slapped him hard on the bottom, her face ashen. "Be quiet! What have I told you about saying things like that?" The boy burst into tears, wailing indignantly. "I'm not lying! Grandma said it! Uncle Ethan is... woo hoo hoo..." My sister clamped her hand over his mouth and rushed him back to his room. The crying, the shouting, the shushing, the sighs... all the sounds mixed together, a chaotic symphony in my ears. I turned, dazed, and looked at the man beside me. His image began to warp and twist. Bzzzzzz... Bzzzzzz... A loud ringing started in my ears. He smiled, but tears were streaming down his face. A single drop, then another. "I told you," he said, his voice cutting through the ringing. "I told you not to bring me home."
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