Chapter 1
Just before ending my life, I was scrolling through my Instagram feed and saw a photo of my husband.
There he was, embracing the woman he could never forget as the magnificent sunrise painted the sky behind them.
I turned off my phone screen and, with a trembling hand, swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills.
The doctors said I had lung cancer. I was dying anyway.
If I were going to die, let it be in the deep, consuming darkness I had always been so terrified of.
Charlie, I hope I never meet you again.
*****
The day I received my late-stage lung cancer diagnosis, Charlie sat up in bed, fastening his cuffs with deliberate slowness.
I watched his back and asked, "Charlie, what will it take for you to let me go?"
His hands, which had been adjusting his clothes, stilled. He glanced back at me, his voice cold. "What's wrong, Alana? Can't handle it anymore?
"Weren't you the one who begged and pleaded to marry me?
“You got your wish, and now you're already tired of it?"
Under his disgust-filled gaze, I instinctively lowered my head and pressed my lips together.
Charlie let out a short, mocking laugh and turned away, finishing dressing.
"Alana, don't forget. You're the one who came to me."
He didn't spare me a single glance as he strode out of the room, the door shutting firmly behind him.
Outside, a steady drizzle fell, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunde
Looking around the empty bedroom, I buried my face in my knees.
He was right. I had brought this upon myself.
But the bravery that once made me rush fearlessly toward the flame, the audacity of my youth, seemed to have evaporated completely in this moment.
I was like a candle, nearly burnt out.
Filled with resentment, yet utterly powerless.
When I woke the next morning, pale sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on my face.
But soon, a wave of nausea hit me. My throat was raw as I coughed, spattering the floor with blood.
Charlie was working on his laptop from the armchair in our bedroom.
"Feeling unwell?" he asked offhandedly.
"Yeah, a little," I stammered, hastily grabbing a tissue to wipe the floor clean.
He merely grunted in acknowledgment, his attention never wavering from his screen.
Not a single glance my way.
Setting his laptop aside, Charlie picked up his suit jacket, draping it casually over his arm. He walked over to me, each step measured. "If you're sick, stay home. Don't wander around. There's prepared food in the fridge; just heat it up later."
I nodded, compliant in a way that felt utterly foreign.
It's human nature, I suppose, to become nostalgic and dwell on the past when death feels near.
I was hopeless at math back in high school.
The problems never made any sense to me, completely useless in my eyes.
I remember one time when tests were being handed back, I dozed off at my desk.
My deskmate, a notoriously mischievous boy, saw his chance and snatched my paper while I was sleeping.
"Ha! Alana only scored 39%!" he laughed. "She's such an idiot! I could do better blindfolded!"
Still groggy, I watched him parade around the classroom, announcing my score to everyone.
Even at that age, I knew this was deeply humiliating.
My lips trembled as I rested my chin on the desk. I wanted to stand up and take my paper back, but their mocking stares kept me frozen in place.
Suddenly, I heard a chair scrape violently.
I looked up to see Charlie storming across the room, his face dark with anger.
He threw a punch at the boy, yanking my test paper back.
The entire class fell silent, and I sat there stunned.
Charlie was... terrifying.
Yet, inexplicably, my heart began to race.
He pinned the boy down, landing punch after punch on his face until it was swollen and bruised. Only then did he stop.
Charlie snatched my paper from the floor, strode back to my desk, and dropped it in front of me.
His eyes were lowered, his expression still stormy. "Don't just sit there and take it," he muttered.