The Letter I Folded Into His Book Eight Years Ago

The day Leighton Ashby came home with his new fiancée, everyone expected me to crumble.

They thought I'd chase him, sobbing, and beg him not to marry her.

I didn't show up to that either.

What Leighton didn't know was that the same morning, the hospital told me eight years of treatment had run out of road, and I could go home to rest.

He saw me in the wheelchair, my mother's hands on the handles, and his mouth curled.

"Eight years gone and look at you," he said, "can't even walk anymore."

I tugged my sleeve down over the back of my hand, over the needle marks no one was supposed to see.

"It's nothing," I told him, smiling, "I tripped, just a fracture."

He laughed again and asked me to be the bridesmaid at his wedding.

"I can't," I said, just as calm, "I'm leaving for somewhere very far soon."

He thought I meant another country.

He never asked why I really pushed him onto that plane eight years ago.

He never found the letter I folded into our old book the night I broke his heart.

And he doesn't know that the only thing I want before I run out of time is for him to never find out at all.

***

Two hours after the oncology ward discharged me to home hospice, the rubber tires of my wheelchair thumped against the raised brass threshold of the Miller estate.

"Just a small bump, honey," my mother whispered, adjusting her grip on the handles as she pushed me into the grand foyer.

I gripped the cold metal armrests, bracing for the jolt. But the real shock came a second later, waiting right by the sweeping marble staircase.

Leighton.

Eight years had erased the messy-haired college boy I once knew, replacing him with a man encased in a tailored navy suit that clung to his broad shoulders. His arm was wrapped securely around the waist of a tall, radiant blonde woman. He was laughing at something she said, the sound rich and echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Then he turned his head.

The laughter died on his lips. His eyes darted from my pale, sunken face straight down to the metal footrests of my chair. A cruel, mocking smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.

"Well, look who it is," Leighton said. His voice sliced through the quiet foyer, sharp enough to cut glass. "Eight years, Elise. And this is how you end up? You can't even walk anymore?"

My mother gasped. Her hands clamped down hard on the rubber grips behind my shoulders. "Leighton Miller, you have absolutely no right to--"

"Mom, don't," I interrupted, keeping my tone perfectly flat.

The blonde woman tilted her head, her perfectly manicured fingers resting against Leighton's chest. "Who is this, babe?"

"An old friend," Leighton replied, never breaking eye contact with me. "Though 'friend' might be a stretch. She used to follow me around in college. Right before she vanished without a single word."

He stepped closer, pulling the blonde with him. The scent of his expensive cedar cologne hit me, bringing a sudden, violent wave of nausea.

"I asked you a question, Elise," he pressed, stopping just three feet away. "What happened to your legs? Did karma finally catch up with you?"

I stared at the intricate floral pattern of the Persian rug beneath his polished leather shoes. My right hand lay exposed on my lap. The skin was mottled with purple and yellow bruises, a canvas of tiny, dark needle marks left behind by eight years of relentless IV drips, blood draws, and chemical injections.

Slowly, I pinched the thick nylon cuff of my black puffer jacket. I pulled the fabric down, burying my ruined hand inside the oversized sleeve.

"It's nothing," I said softly, forcing my chin up to meet his hostile stare. "I just took a fall. Fractured a bone, that's all."

Leighton scoffed. The sound was harsh, utterly dismissive. "Always the clumsy one. You haven't changed a bit. Still pathetic."

I swallowed the bitter taste pooling in my mouth. Just hours ago, the lead oncologist had stood at the foot of my hospital bed, his clipboard resting against his chest, telling my mother to take me home and make me comfortable. There were no more treatments left to try. My body was done.

I didn't have the energy to fight Leighton. I didn't have the time.

"We are leaving," my mother said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. She tried to pull the wheelchair backward, but the rear wheels caught on the thick fringe of the rug.

"Don't rush off," Leighton said. He stepped forward and planted his shoe firmly on the edge of the carpet, trapping the wheels in place. "Vanessa and I are here to see my parents. We just got engaged."

He lifted Vanessa's left hand, showing off a massive, square-cut diamond ring that caught the light from the chandelier overhead.

"Congratulations," I said. I kept my lips curved in a polite, empty smile.

Vanessa beamed, completely oblivious to the toxic history hanging heavily in the air between us. "Thank you so much! Leighton has told me absolutely nothing about you, but any friend of his is a friend of mine."

"We aren't friends," Leighton corrected her, his eyes still boring into mine, searching for a crack in my composure. "But since Elise clearly has an empty schedule these days, maybe she should come to the wedding. Actually, why don't you be a bridesmaid?"

My mother let out a sharp breath. "Are you out of your mind?"

"It's a generous offer, Mrs. Marchetti," Leighton fired back, his jaw tightening. "It would be good for her to get out of the house. Unless rolling down the aisle is too much work."

Vanessa giggled, a high, sugary noise that scraped against my eardrums. "Oh, we could find a dress that doesn't drag in the wheels! I'm sure there are adaptive gowns for people in your... situation. It would be so sweet to include you."

My chest tightened. The familiar, deep-seated ache radiated from my ribs, a stark reminder of the disease eating through my liver and lungs. Eight years of fighting, eight years of agonizing pain, only to end up right back here, humiliated in a hallway by the only man I ever loved.

I shifted my gaze to my mother's side. Her leather tote bag hung open. Poking out of the zipper was the worn, green spine of a vintage copy of The Great Gatsby. We used to read that exact book together under the oak trees behind the campus library. Tucked between page fifty-two and fifty-three was a sealed white envelope.

A letter I wrote the day I left him. The day I got my very first diagnosis.

I never sent it. I let him hate me instead, convincing myself it would be easier for him to move on if he thought I was a heartless coward who abandoned him for someone else.

Looking at him now, standing tall and healthy with his beautiful new fiancee, I knew I made the right choice. He had a future. I only had a few weeks.

"No thanks," I said, my smile stretching just a fraction wider. The effort made my facial muscles ache. "I won't be able to make it. I'm going somewhere very far away soon."

Leighton frowned. The cruel amusement vanished from his features, replaced by a flash of genuine confusion. "Far away? You? In that chair?"

"Something like that."

"Where?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. "You're moving abroad? With what money? You look like you can barely afford that ugly coat you're wearing."

He was trying to provoke me. He wanted the old Elise, the girl who would yell and throw things and fight back with everything she had.

I didn't give it to him. I just kept smiling, locking all my pain securely behind my teeth.

"It doesn't matter," I said gently.

I reached up and patted my mother's trembling hand, resting on my shoulder.

"Let's go home, Mom. I'm tired."

She didn't waste another second. She yanked the chair back with enough force to free the wheels from the rug entirely. She spun me around, turning our backs to Leighton and Vanessa before he could say another word.

The rubber tires squeaked against the polished marble floor, rolling smoothly toward the heavy oak front doors.

"Elise!" Leighton called out.

I stared straight ahead at the brass door handle, keeping my hands folded over my stomach.

"How far is far?" his voice snapped through the foyer, sharp and demanding.

I didn't turn around.