Love and hate intertwined

I had loved Silas for ten years.

But on the very day I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, his first love returned home.

I loved him. Whether he loved me in return, I didn't know—I couldn't feel it. But I was certain he would never cheat.

In the final days of my life, I flawlessly played the role of the perfect wife.

After I died, he found my diary. And when he finished reading it, he broke down and wept with a gut-wrenching, soul-crushing agony.

Chapter 1

The diagnosis was printed on a crisp, pristine sheet of white paper. Cancer. Stage four.

My fingers, trembling and numb, hovered over the phone screen. I opened my contacts, tapped his name, and then backed out. I repeated this three times.

Silas. My husband.

Before I could even press the dial button, his name flashed across the screen. He was calling me.

My heart gave an involuntary, violent lurch. I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear.

"Nina," his voice drifted through the receiver, his tone softening as he said my name. "I have some things to take care of tonight. I won't make it for dinner, and I might be back late. Don't wait up for me; go to bed early."

The words I had been practicing—Silas, I'm sick, the doctor says I'm dying—caught in my throat.

"...Okay," I murmured.

The call was as brief and compliant as always. The line disconnected, leaving only the hollow tone of a dropped call, but I remained frozen on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to my cheek.

Silas, I'm sick, I'm dying.