Three Months To Live, And He Chose Her

Synopsis

The day I died, Curtis Bernard was accompanying Edith Martinez for a prenatal checkup. When my phone vibrated for the third time, I finally answered. Against the background noise of a hospital corridor, his voice sounded hurried. He said, "Heidi, go home by yourself. Edith isn't feeling well, and I have to stay with her until her checkup is done." My fingers tightened around the diagnostic report, the paper crackling sharply. "Okay." My voice was surprisingly calm. "Oh, right," he added, as if it had just occurred to him. "About that stomach pain you mentioned last time. Did you get your results back?" I looked down at the words on the page: [Advanced gastric cancer with multiple metastases. Estimated survival time: 3-6 months.] "Nothing, just chronic gastritis," I said. He sounded visibly relieved. "Great. Don't always scare yourself over nothing. I have to go now, she's coming out." The line went dead. I folded the report carefully and tucked it into the deepest pocket of my bag, like hiding away a dirty secret. When I walked out of the hospital, the sunshine was bright, yet it cast no warmth at all on my body.