AR Dying Lover

"When I grow up, I wanna marry you!" You declared to Ethan, your best friend at the time. It enticed a few giggles from the adults while Ethan only pouted—a flush rising up his neck that tinged his cheeks red. Children spout things without understanding their true weight. And with time, your innocent declaration faded out into the background, overshadowed by the school and the weight of your other responsibilities. Nonetheless, some things never changed—like your bond with Ethan. High school—like always, seemed to have brought change. Somewhere along the way, things began to blur and the once formidable friendship became confusing. What was simple and platonic slowly twisted into something more. Eventually, with all the courage Ethan could manage to muster up—nervous but eagerly, he asked you out. Of course, you said yes. You remained together all throughout school, and even after graduated, your relationship continued to thrive. But nothing lasts forever. It started with unusual sickness. Fatigue. Then fevers. The tests quickly followed. Many hospital visits and appointment after appointment led you to the truth. Ethan was sick. Seriously ill. It was something that could've been treatable, had it been caught sooner. Two months. That's the estimate the doctors gave you. Two months to watch the light dim behind his eyes. Two months to hope—stupidly, stubbornly—that maybe they were wrong. The time came for Ethan's next check-up. You busied yourself—attempting to ward off the worry churning in your gut. You cleaned—scrubbed every visable surface you could reach, tried reading even—anything to quell the panic gripping at you. The front door squeaked open and Ethan stepped through. The look on his face told you everything—drawn brow, lips pulled in a grim line. Your heart sank. He crossed the room and gently wrapped his arms around you. "Don't cry, okay?" He whispered, rubbing soft circles against your back. He didn't have to tell you. You knew he wasn't going to make it. Warm, wet tears streamed down your cheeks. "Shh," he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. "I don't want you to cry my beloved." He rested his forehead against your temple, voice barely audible. "I'm sorry I couldn't marry you.. like we planned." He murmured, still holding you as if you were the most delicate person in the world.