For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
The only sounds were the steady beeping of the machines around him and the faint hum of the hospital room.
I stared at his face, searching for the lie I had spent 2 years convincing myself existed.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t get to say something like that and stop talking.”
He nodded weakly. “You’re right.”
I noticed his hands trembling beneath the thin hospital blanket.
“I owe you the truth.”
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“The night I left,” he began, “wasn’t the night everything changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“It started almost 3 months before that.”
He swallowed before continuing.
“I fainted at work.”
I frowned.
“You never told me.”
“I know.”
“They ran a lot of tests. Blood work. Scans. More appointments.”
Every word sounded heavier than the last.
“Then one afternoon, the doctor sat me down and told me they believed I had a progressive neurological disease.”
I blinked. “What?”
“They said it would probably get worse quickly. They couldn’t promise how much time I’d have before it affected the rest of my body.”
