Oncology.

Cancer.

I sat upright on the bed, only then realizing my knees were shaking. Papers slipped from my hands and scattered across the floor.

Stage II.
Stage III.
Chemotherapy sessions.
Radiation schedules.

Dates.

Two years ago.

Two years.

Two years since he grew distant.
Two years since he stopped asking for affection.
Two years since he suddenly became “careful” with money.

I couldn’t breathe.

“No… this can’t be real,” I whispered.

My hands found the notebook.

On the first page—his handwriting.

“If you’re reading this, Mark, then I’m no longer at home.

I hope that by now, you’re happy.”

Tears blurred the ink.

Page by page, a life I never tried to understand unfolded in front of me.

He wrote everything.

The nausea after chemotherapy.
The hair falling out, hidden beneath a bonnet.
The nights he cried silently in the bathroom so I wouldn’t hear.

“I don’t want him to see me weak.

Mark already has his battles—the studio, the debts, the dream of becoming someone.”

One page was wrinkled with tear stains.

“If I ask for help, it will only break him.”

“So I have to be strong. Even alone.”

Memories slammed into me.

The nights he stayed locked in the bathroom.
The days he refused to move.

I thought he was pretending.
I thought he didn’t love me anymore.

One sentence cut straight through me.

“I saved the money.

Not for myself.
For Mark.”

I stared at the receipts again.

A bank account.

In my name.

I kept reading.

Near the end, the truth became unbearable.

“The pain is getting worse.

The doctor says I need intensive treatment.
Expensive. Long. No guarantees.”

My chest tightened.