The day the doctor told me I had only 7 days to live, my husband squeezed my hand so hard that for a second, I thought he was doing it to keep from breaking down in front of me. But instead, he leaned in, brushed my ear with his lips, and whispered a sentence that killed me faster than any diagnosis ever could

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, smoothing his jacket. “You’ve suffered enough. And once this is over, things will be easier for everyone. Especially me.”

I wanted to ask what kind of monster he was, but my throat burned and my tongue felt heavy. Derek touched my hair with fake tenderness, and nausea rolled through me.

“I’ll bring your usual,” he said softly. “It’ll help you feel better.”

The usual.

The cup.

The warm tea he brought me every night. Bitter. Metallic. Strange. A taste I had explained away a hundred different ways. He always smiled when he gave it to me.

“It’s natural, sweetheart. It’ll make you stronger.”

I remembered the plant in the garden that had accidentally gotten a few drops of that tea one afternoon. The next morning, its leaves were yellow, curled, and dead-looking, as if it had burned from the inside.

I remembered months of dizziness, stomach pain, weakness, and Derek insisting he should prepare my drinks, handle my pills, speak for me, care for me.

Suddenly, everything connected so fast that fear turned cold.

Maybe I wasn’t simply dying.

Maybe I was being killed.