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.

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind us, cutting off Leighton's voice.

"How far is far?" The question still rattled against my eardrums as my mother shoved my wheelchair over the concrete driveway toward our rusted sedan.

She popped the trunk and wrestled the metal frame inside. I dragged myself into the passenger seat, resting my head against the cold glass of the window as the engine sputtered to life.

Watching the Miller estate shrink in the rearview mirror, I traced the condensation on the glass. Eight years ago, I locked my terminal biopsy report inside my desk drawer, and three days later, I screamed every vicious lie I could invent just to force him onto his flight to London.

Now, the worn, green spine of The Great Gatsby sat heavily on my thighs.

My mother had pulled it from her tote bag and placed it there before starting the car. I ran a bruised fingertip over the frayed fabric cover. Tucked exactly at page eighty-eight, a sealed white envelope rested untouched. Eight years of silence, folded into a single square of paper.

I didn't open the book. I just kept my hand pressed flat against the cover.

"We'll get you straight into bed," my mother said, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "You need your pain medication."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"You are not fine, Elise. He had no right to speak to you that way."

"He doesn't know."

"That doesn't give him a pass to be cruel."

"Drop it," I whispered, closing my eyes. "We'll never see him again anyway."

We pulled into our narrow driveway. The cracked asphalt bumped under the tires. My mother hurried around to my side, unfolding the wheelchair and helping me settle back into the vinyl seat.

She pushed me through the front door and into the center of our cramped living room. The faded floral sofa and the scratched coffee table felt entirely too small after the sprawling marble foyer of the Miller estate.

"I'll get your pills," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

I stayed in the middle of the rug, staring at the blank television screen. The book remained on my lap.

The doorbell rang.

Three sharp, impatient buzzes echoed through the quiet house.

My mother hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She pulled the front door open, ready to turn away whoever was selling magazines or asking for donations.

She froze.

Leighton stood on our front porch.

He had shed his navy suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows. Right beside him stood his fiancee, Vanessa. She had swapped her heels for designer flats, but her posture remained just as arrogant.

"What are you doing here?" my mother demanded, blocking the doorway.

"My parents insisted," Leighton said. He didn't look at her. His gaze cut straight over her shoulder, pinning me to my chair. "They wanted us to catch up. Old family ties and all that."

"We don't want you here," my mother snapped. "Leave."

"It's alright, Mom," I called out. My voice sounded thin, frail. "Let them in."

My mother hesitated, her shoulders rigid, before stepping aside.

Leighton walked into our living room like he owned the property. He stopped in front of the coffee table, towering over me. Vanessa trailed behind him, her eyes darting across the peeling wallpaper and the stained lampshades.

"Cozy," Vanessa murmured, wrapping her arms around her chest. "Very vintage."

"Why did you really follow us, Leighton?" I asked, keeping my hands resting firmly over the green book.

"I told you. My parents made me." He shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the room. "They think it's a tragedy about your legs. Wanted me to see if you needed anything. Money, maybe? A better chair?"

"We don't need your charity," my mother said from the entryway.

"It's not charity, Mrs. Marchetti," Leighton fired back, his tone heavy with condescension. "It's pity. There's a difference."

"You have no right to come into my home and insult my daughter."

"Your daughter insulted me fine on her own," Leighton said, turning his attention back to me. "Isn't that right, Elise? Or did you forget how to speak along with how to walk?"

"I have nothing to say to you," I replied.

He leaned down, bringing his face closer to mine. The sharp scent of cedar filled my lungs again, thick and suffocating.

"Is that why you came back?" he asked, his tone dropping into a low, mocking register. "Did your new life fall apart? Did the guy you left me for finally figure out how empty you are?"

"I came back because I wanted to," I said.

"Right. You just felt like rolling back into town after eight years of absolute silence." He let out a harsh laugh. "Where is he, anyway? The guy who was so much better than me?"

"He isn't here."

"Obviously. Did he dump you when the wheelchair arrived?"

I clamped my teeth together. The metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue.

"You know, you had a lot more fire in you the night you walked out," Leighton pressed, his eyes narrowing. "You stood right in my dorm room and told me I was nothing but a stepping stone."

"People change."

"You said I was too boring for you. That my plans for London were a joke."

"I remember what I said."

"Do you?" He straightened up, his jaw tight. "Because looking at you now, it seems like karma did my work for me. You just got quieter. And a lot more pathetic."

Vanessa stepped up beside him, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. The massive diamond on her finger flashed under our dim ceiling light.

"Don't be too hard on her, babe," Vanessa said, offering me a pitying smile. "It must be terribly difficult, living like this. Confined to a chair all day. I could never imagine losing my mobility."

"She brought it on herself," Leighton said.

"Still," Vanessa continued, looking around our cramped living room. "It's very... humbling. The peeling wallpaper. The tiny windows. It really puts things into perspective."

"Vanessa, please," my mother warned, her voice trembling with anger.

"I'm just making an observation," Vanessa said, feigning innocence. "Leighton told me you used to be so vibrant, Elise. It's just sad to see you like this."

I stared at the zipper of his trousers, refusing to look him in the eye. Every word he spoke drove another nail into my ribs, but I welcomed the pain. It meant my plan had worked.

He hated me. He moved on. He built a perfect, healthy life with a woman who could actually walk down the aisle.

"If you're done delivering your parents' message," I said, keeping my voice entirely flat, "you can leave."

"Kicking me out again?" Leighton asked.

"I'm just tired."

"You were always tired of me, weren't you?" He took half a step back, shaking his head. "I spent years trying to figure out what I did wrong. Why you threw us away like garbage."

"Leighton, please."

"I almost didn't get on that plane to London because of you," he sneered. "I almost threw away my entire career to stay here and beg you to take me back."

My chest tightened. The disease beneath my ribs throbbed in time with my racing heartbeat.

"But looking at you now?" Leighton continued, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I realize you just never had a heart to begin with. You did me a favor."

"Think whatever you want," I said softly.

"I will."

Vanessa sighed, clearly bored by the tension radiating between us. She released his arm and wandered toward the sofa, her eyes landing on my lap.

"Is that a first edition?" she asked, pointing a manicured finger at the book resting on my thighs.

"It's just a book," I said, pulling it slightly closer to my stomach.

"I love Gatsby," Vanessa continued, ignoring my dismissal. She closed the distance between us in two quick strides. "Leighton actually bought me a rare print for my birthday last year. Let me see the cover."

"No," I said, my voice finally cracking.

I tried to pull the book away, but my right hand lacked the strength. My bruised fingers slipped against the fabric.

Vanessa didn't listen. She reached down and grabbed the top edge of the hardcover, yanking it upward.

"Don't touch that!" my mother yelled, stepping forward.

It was too late.

Vanessa pulled the book from my lap. The sudden motion caused the worn binding to fall open.

The pages fluttered wildly, fanning out in the air.

It fell open to page eighty-eight.

The thick, yellowed paper of the sealed white envelope slid from the crease, dropping halfway out of the book.

I threw my entire body forward and slammed my palm flat against the exposed paper.

My palm slapped against the brittle yellow paper, trapping the white envelope securely against page eighty-eight.

Vanessa flinched, snatching her manicured fingers back as if the pages had burned her.

"Jesus, Elise," she muttered, rubbing her wrist. "Fine. Keep your dusty book."

"I need to put this away," I said. My voice sounded hollow, completely detached from the rapid pounding in my chest.

I gripped the cold metal rims of my wheelchair and pushed backward. The rubber tires squeaked against the faded rug as I spun away from the coffee table.

"Let me help you, honey," my mother said, stepping forward with her hands outstretched.

"I've got it." I forced the wheels over the transition strip of the hallway linoleum. "Stay with our guests."

I navigated the narrow corridor to my bedroom, leaving the door cracked open. The familiar silence of the small room wrapped around me. I tossed the green hardcover onto the edge of my mattress, ensuring the pages remained tightly shut.

Slipping off my heavy puffer jacket, I stared down at the back of my hand, where eight years of relentless treatments had left a permanent, bruised map of countless needle punctures. Every single check-up, it had been just me and my mother, her hands gripping the handles of my wheelchair as we faced another round of failing hope.

The floorboards creaked outside.

Leighton pushed the bedroom door wide open. He didn't bother to knock. He leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space, his eyes scanning the cramped, shadowy room.

"Nice setup," he drawled. "Very glamorous."

"You shouldn't be in here, Leighton."

"Why not?" He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. "Vanessa is busy telling your mother about our upcoming trip to the Maldives. I figured we could finish our chat."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"I disagree." He closed the distance between us, stopping just inches from my footrests. "I want to know about this amazing life you traded me for. Where's the big career? Where's the rich guy who was going to give you the world?"

I kept my hands folded over my lap. "I never said there was another guy."

"You didn't have to." Leighton let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You stood in my dorm room and told me I dragged you down. You said you needed better prospects."

His words dug into my chest, twisting like a serrated blade. I remembered that night perfectly. I had just hidden the terminal biopsy report under my mattress. I screamed those lies until my throat bled, just to make him let go of me.

"You were going to London," I said softly. "You had a fellowship."

"And I wanted you to come with me!" he shouted. The sudden volume rattled the cheap windowpanes. He caught himself, his jaw clenching as he lowered his voice. "I offered you everything I had. But it wasn't enough. You wanted money. You wanted status. And look what it got you."

He gestured sharply at my wheelchair.

"Karma is a bitch, Elise. You threw me away for a better future, and now you're stuck in a rotting house, unable to even stand up."

A sharp sting hit the back of my eyes. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the physical pain to ground myself. I couldn't defend myself. If I told him the truth now, it would ruin his engagement. It would ruin his life.

I let the insult wash over me. The venom in his voice was a shield. As long as he hated me, he was safe from the truth.

"Are you happy, Leighton?" I asked.

He blinked. The question clearly caught him off guard. "What?"

"With Vanessa. With your career." I forced myself to look up, meeting his hostile gaze. "Have you been doing well?"

His expression darkened. "Don't try to change the subject. Don't act like you care."

"I do care. I just want to know if you're happy."

Leighton crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm fantastic. I run a firm. I make seven figures. I'm marrying a woman who actually respects me. My life started the second I got rid of you."

"Good." I managed a small, fragile smile. "I'm glad."

My lack of retaliation seemed to infuriate him even more. He wanted a fight. He wanted the fiery, stubborn girl he dated in college to scream back at him.

"You're pathetic," he spat. He turned away, pacing toward the edge of my bed. "You sit here acting like a saint when we both know you're completely hollow inside."

"If calling me names helps you, then go ahead."

"It doesn't help me." He stopped pacing and glared at the mattress. "Nothing about this helps me. Coming here was a mistake."

"Then leave."

"I will."

Leighton reached down and grabbed the vintage copy of The Great Gatsby off the edge of my bed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Put that down."

"Why?" He weighed the hardcover in his palm, running his thumb over the gold lettering. "Vanessa liked it. She collects these old editions."

"It's mine, Leighton. Put it back."

"You owe me," he said, his eyes flashing with a cruel, vindictive light. "For the plane ticket I almost didn't board. For the months I spent drinking myself sick over you. Consider this a small souvenir of your current misery."

He didn't open the cover. He didn't see the thick white envelope tucked securely between page eighty-eight and eighty-nine.

"Leighton, please," I whispered. My voice cracked, betraying the panic clawing at my throat. "Don't take that."

"Watch me."

He turned his back to me and strode out of the bedroom, his fingers wrapped tightly around the worn green spine.