The morning light filtered through our bedroom curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. I winced as I opened my eyes, the familiar ache in my chest intensifying with each breath. Today was my birthday—my last birthday.

I pressed my palm against my sternum, feeling the irregular flutter beneath my skin. Three years left. No, less than that now.

"Jackson?" I whispered into the empty space beside me.

He hadn't come home again last night.

I dragged myself upright, swallowing against the metallic taste in my mouth. The room spun slightly as I stood, but I steadied myself against the dresser. This was going to be a bad day. I could feel it in the way my lungs refused to fully expand, in the weight that had settled deep in my bones.

In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, eyes too large for my face. I looked like I was already half-dead.

"Twenty-eight," I whispered to the mirror. "The last time I'll see this day."

I forced a smile, trying to remember what it felt like to genuinely feel that expression. It had been so long since something had made me truly happy.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I moved mechanically through the familiar motions. Jackson's favorite breakfast—crispy bacon, perfectly golden eggs, toast with just the right amount of butter. I arranged the food carefully on his plate, placing a small vase of daisies—his favorite—in the center of the table. I lit two candles, their tiny flames dancing in the morning light.

"Make a wish," I murmured to myself, though I wasn't sure what I would wish for anymore.

The urge to cough hit suddenly, violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it before my body betrayed me. Blood splattered the white porcelain, bright and accusing.

"No, no, no," I gasped, grabbing the bleach from under the sink. I scrubbed frantically at the evidence, watching as the blood dissolved into pink streaks that eventually disappeared down the drain.

My hands trembled as I cleaned. Jackson couldn't know. He couldn't see me like this.

When I returned to the dining room, I was pale but composed, a smile fixed on my face that didn't reach my eyes.

"Morning," Jackson said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was already scrolling through his phone.

"Happy birthday, Phoebe." He glanced up briefly, his smile not quite meeting his eyes.

I nodded, trying to ignore the way my heart clenched at his distracted greeting. "I made your favorite."

"Thanks." He sat down but kept his phone in his hand, thumbs typing rapidly.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft ping of notifications from his device.

"Aren't you going to eat?" I asked softly.

"Sorry, can't." He stood abruptly, pocketing his phone. "Megan's having some complications. I need to take her to her prenatal appointment."

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. "Today? But it's my birthday."

Jackson's expression flickered with guilt, but it was quickly replaced by determination. "I know, and I'm sorry. But this is critical, Phoebe. The baby—"

"The baby that might not even be yours?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His jaw tightened. "That's not fair. I have to do the right thing here."

I looked down at the carefully prepared breakfast, now growing cold. "Just stay for ten minutes. Just eat with me."

"I can't." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "Megan needs me."

He pulled a small box from his pocket and placed it on the table. The wrapping was hasty, the ribbon slightly askew. "Happy birthday. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

A kiss on my forehead, so brief I barely felt it, and then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed in the sudden silence.

I sat alone at the table set for two, staring at the food I'd prepared with such care.

The pain in my chest intensified, spreading through my limbs like ice water. I tried to stand but my legs gave way beneath me.

"No," I whispered as I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. "Not yet."

But my body had other plans. The coughing started again, more violent this time. Blood pooled beneath me, warm and sticky against the cold tiles.

As my vision blurred, my phone lit up on the table above me. Through wavering eyes, I saw the notification:

"Jackson Burke @JacksonB24: Priorities. #blessed #familyfirst"

The image showed his hand wrapped around Megan's, both of them smiling in a sterile hospital room.

My hand dropped to the floor, and darkness rushed in from all sides.

My last thought before consciousness slipped away was that no one would find me until it was too late. And maybe that was better than being found at all.

The sound of my body hitting the kitchen floor seemed to echo through the empty house. I lay there, unable to move, watching blood pool beneath me like a crimson blanket. My vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges as I fought to stay conscious.

"Help," I whispered, though I knew no one could hear me.

Then, faintly, I heard it—the sound of footsteps outside, followed by a key turning in the lock.

"Phoebe? Phoebe, are you home?"

Emma's voice. My neighbor. The spare key I'd given her months ago.

"In here," I tried to call out, but it came out as a wet gurgle. More blood filled my mouth.

The kitchen door burst open, and Emma's gasp cut through the fog in my mind.

"Oh my God!" She dropped her purse and rushed to my side, her face pale with shock. "What happened?"

I tried to speak, but another coughing fit seized me. More blood splattered the floor.

"Don't try to talk." Emma's hands hovered over me, unsure where to touch. "I'm calling an ambulance."

Through wavering vision, I watched her grab her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed 911. The room spun around me, colors blurring into one another.

"Stay with me, Phoebe," Emma urged, her voice sounding distant despite her kneeling beside me. "The ambulance is coming."

I wanted to tell her not to bother, that this was always how it would end—alone on the kitchen floor of a house that no longer felt like home. But I couldn't form the words.

---

In the hospital, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Machines beeped steadily around me, monitoring what little life I had left.

"Blood pressure dropping," a nurse called out. "We need to stabilize her."

I drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of hands on my body, voices discussing my condition in clinical terms. Internal bleeding. Organ failure. Critical condition.

Somewhere in the haze, I heard Emma's voice again, urgent and worried.

"Is there someone we can call? Family? Her boyfriend?"

A nurse mentioned Jackson's name, and I strained to hear the response.

"I've been trying to reach him for hours," Emma said, frustration evident in her voice. "Seventeen missed calls. He's not answering."

I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh trapped in my chest. Of course he wasn't answering. He was with her—with Megan—watching their baby's ultrasound, probably holding her hand and telling her everything would be okay.

The irony wasn't lost on me. While I lay here fighting for my life, he was celebrating the beginning of another.

---

"Jackson Burke?"

A hand touched his shoulder, and Jackson looked up from Megan's bedside. The ultrasound technician had just finished the examination, showing them the tiny flicker of a heartbeat on the screen.

"Yes?" He was annoyed at the interruption.

"There's been an emergency call for you, sir. Multiple attempts to reach you."

Jackson frowned, glancing at his phone for the first time in hours. He'd silenced it when Megan started crying about the baby's health—something about possible complications that had turned out to be nothing.

"Seventeen missed calls?" He stood abruptly, his heart suddenly racing. "Who is it?"

"Your neighbor, sir. Emma Torres. She said it's about Phoebe Phillips."

The color drained from Jackson's face. "What about her?"

"She's been taken to St. Mary's Hospital. Critical condition."

Megan reached for his hand, her eyes wide with concern. "Jackson, what's wrong?"

"I have to go," he muttered, already moving toward the door.

"But what about me?" Megan's voice followed him into the hallway. "What about us?"

---

"Mr. Burke?"

Jackson nodded at the doctor standing outside the ICU, her expression grave.

"I'm Dr. Sarah Chen. I've been treating Phoebe."

"Is she okay?" The question felt hollow even as he asked it.

Dr. Chen's gaze was steady, unflinching. "No, Mr. Burke. She's not okay. Phoebe has suffered massive internal organ failure. We've stabilized her for now, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "At best, she has a few months."

"That's impossible." Jackson shook his head, denial rising in his throat. "She was fine this morning. She made breakfast."

"Was she?" Dr. Chen raised an eyebrow. "Because according to her records, this has been progressing for some time."

Jackson pushed past her, needing to see for himself. The ICU room was dim, filled with the quiet hum of machines keeping me alive.

"Phoebe," he whispered, approaching the bed.

I lay still, my skin nearly as white as the sheets beneath me. Tubes and wires connected me to beeping monitors, tracking what remained of my vital signs.

Slowly, I turned my head away from him.

"Go back to her," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "She needs you more."

"Phoebe, please—"

"She's carrying your child, Jackson." Each word cost me, but I forced them out. "I'm just...dying."

I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar ache in my chest expand until it consumed everything else. Behind me, I heard him call my name again, but I didn't turn back.

Some doors, once closed, should stay that way.

The hospital discharged me three days later, though "discharged" felt like a misnomer. I wasn't getting better. I was simply dying more slowly at home.

"You'll need someone to stay with you," Dr. Chen had said, her eyes flicking meaningfully toward Jackson.

"I'll take care of her," Jackson had promised, squeezing my hand with a conviction that made my heart ache. "I've already cleared my schedule for the next week."

I wanted to believe him.

The first two days were almost bearable. Jackson brought me tea in bed, helped me shower when my legs were too weak, and even read aloud from books I'd never finish. For brief moments, I could pretend this was just another rough patch we'd weather together.

Then Megan's texts started.

"Jackson, I'm having these weird pains again."

"Jackson, the baby's kicking so hard. Is that normal?"

"Jackson, I'm scared. Can you come over?"

At first, he tried to handle them discreetly—quick glances at his phone, hushed conversations in the hallway. But as the messages increased, so did his anxiety.

"I need to take this," he'd say, already standing. "It's about the baby."

I'd nod, watching him pace the hallway just outside our bedroom door, his voice low but urgent. "Yes, I understand... No, don't worry... I'll be there if you need me..."

The walls were thin. I heard every word, every reassurance meant for another woman.

By the third day, he was spending more time in the hallway than in the bedroom with me. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to him comfort the woman who was systematically replacing me.

---

The doorbell rang on the fourth day.

"I'll get it," Jackson said, practically jumping from his chair beside my bed.

I heard the front door open, followed by a familiar voice that made my stomach clench.

"Jackson! Thank goodness you're home. I've been trying to reach you."

Megan.

"I brought those papers you needed for the baby's insurance," she continued, her voice honey-sweet. "And I thought I'd check on Phoebe too, of course."

Before I could protest, Jackson appeared in the doorway. "Megan's here with some documents. I'll just be a minute."

He disappeared again, leaving me alone with the knowledge that she was in our home—our sanctuary—invading the last space I had left.

I heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, growing closer. Then she appeared in the doorway, one hand resting protectively over her slightly rounded belly.

"Phoebe," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "You poor thing. You look absolutely terrible."

Jackson returned before I could respond. "Megan says she has some forms for me to sign."

"Of course," I whispered, watching as Megan stepped into our bedroom—my bedroom—like she belonged there.

She moved around the room with practiced ease, picking up trinkets and photos as if appraising their worth. When she reached the nightstand, she paused, studying a framed photograph of Jackson and me at the beach last summer.

"Oh, what a lovely picture," she said, lifting it carefully.

Then, with a movement too deliberate to be accidental, she tilted it just enough for it to slip from her fingers.

The glass shattered against the floor, the sound like ice breaking in my chest.

"I'm so sorry!" she gasped, not sounding sorry at all. "It was slippery."

Jackson rushed to clean up the mess while Megan stood over me, her expression transforming into a cold, triumphant smirk when his back was turned.

"He'll be mine soon," she mouthed silently. "The baby needs its father."

---

"Tonight will be different," Jackson promised that evening, setting candles on our small dining table. "I owe you an apology for your birthday. For everything."

The table was beautiful—my favorite wine (which I could no longer drink), fresh flowers, and all my favorite foods arranged perfectly on the plates.

"It looks lovely," I said, managing a small smile despite the ache in my chest.

Jackson pulled out my chair, and for a moment, I could pretend we were normal again—just a couple having dinner, with no life-threatening conditions or other women carrying his child.

We'd barely taken our first bites when his phone rang.

Megan's ringtone.

Jackson glanced at the screen, his expression immediately shifting from relaxed to tense. "I have to take this."

"Jackson—"

"Phoebe, I'm sorry."

He answered the call, and I watched his face drain of color. "What? How much blood? No, don't move—I'm coming right now."

He ended the call and was already reaching for his keys. "I have to go. It's the baby."

I nodded slowly, setting down my fork. The food tasted like ash in my mouth.

"Go," I said simply.

He hesitated at the door, perhaps waiting for me to beg him to stay, to choose me just once.

But I didn't. I couldn't anymore.

"Phoebe, I—"

"It's okay," I interrupted, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I heard his excuses again.

As the door closed behind him, I didn't cry. Something inside me had finally broken beyond repair—not my heart, which had been breaking slowly for months, but my hope.

I was alone now, truly alone, and maybe that was better than pretending otherwise.