After comforting myself, I felt much better.

Then I got up early to make breakfast for Sheridan.

He stumbled out, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

I subconsciously moved to hug him.

But he turned away, impatience etched in his furrowed brow.

A lump formed in my throat.

In the end, I said nothing.

We ate breakfast in a silence heavier than any we'd known before.

I wanted to say something.

But Sheridan's cold gaze silenced me.

After eating, Sheridan picked up his bag.

"I'm meeting an important artist today. Go to the gallery on your own."

I managed a "Mhm," but he was already out the door before I could say more.

At noon, I left half an hour early.

I went to Mount Sinai Hospital to pick up my latest test results.

In college, my eating habits were very irregular.

I barely ate more than one meal a day.

After graduation, my stomach was always bothering me.

And, my already poor appetite had recently gotten worse.

I'd lost five pounds in a week.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

But that was nothing compared to the abyss that opened up when I read the report.

I felt hopeless.

Terminal stomach cancer.

It was inoperable.

I clutched the report tightly.

I felt adrift in the sterile, silent hospital corridors.

I didn't know who to share this news with.

I picked up my phone, then put it down again.

I am twenty-four years old.

My life has never been smooth sailing.

It felt like God was playing a cruel joke on me.

I sat distractedly on a hospital bench.

For a moment, I considered just... ending it.

But what about Sheridan?

He can't cook, and I'm the one who picks out all his clothes.

At social functions, he's always forced to drink.

Every time he drinks too much, he throws up.

Then he lies on top of me like a cat.

The next day he'll have a headache.

Who will make him the spaghetti bolognese he loves?

I once thought I was all alone, with no one to worry about.

But in that moment, I realized.

Sheridan was my only anchor in this world.

What would he do if I died?

I sighed.

My time was running out.

My thoughts were consumed with worry for the man I loved.

I stood up, ready to go home.

I turned to leave, but a flash of movement in my peripheral vision stopped me.

It was Sheridan.

My heart tightened.

What was he doing at the hospital? Was he sick?

Just as I was thinking this, I saw Royce following closely behind him, emerging from the VIP ward.

Whatever she said, it made him collapse into her arms, burying his face in the thin fabric of her hospital gown.

I stood frozen for a second before bolting down the stairs.

By the time I reached the ground floor, I was breathless.

The sharp cramps in my stomach were becoming unbearable.

I drove home.

My mind was a mess.

I tried to busy my hands to quiet my mind, so I cooked. A feast.

All of Sheridan's favorites, including that spaghetti bolognese.

I kept myself busy.

It was already 5 o'clock when I called Sheridan.

But he didn't pick up.

I sat at the dining table.

I stubbornly waited for Sheridan's return.

Seven o'clock.

He finally came home.

I stood up instinctively to help him with his coat.

He flinched, just slightly, and my stomach dropped. Something was wrong.

"Where were you today?"

My voice came out hoarse from disuse.

His eyes were slightly red as he glanced at the food on the table.

"I didn't know you were cooking. Let me heat it up."

"No need. I've already had dinner."

His tone was icy. "And you don't have to bother doing this anymore."

Then he walked into the study without another word.

I lowered my head.

I sat alone in the dining room.

The ache in my heart quickly eclipsed the fire in my gut.

In four years, Sheridan had never been this cold.

He stayed in the study all night.

And I didn't sleep a wink either.

The next day, he packed his Rimowa suitcase.

After that, Sheridan didn't come home for several days.

He didn't go to the gallery either.

Neither did I.

My stomach pain was becoming more and more unbearable.

I took time off and stayed home.

Not a single phone call.

One day, Sheridan's gallery manager called me.

She asked if I could retrieve an auction catalog from Sheridan's West Village townhouse.

She said it was in his study.

It was the first time I had ever entered Sheridan's study.

He was fiercely private about his personal space, even handling the cleaning himself.

I found the document the manager needed.

I was about to leave.

But I caught sight of a photograph out of the corner of my eye.

Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to leave it alone. I couldn't.

I walked over and picked up the photo.

In it, Sheridan and Royce stood side-by-side on the lawn at their Columbia University graduation.

The dappled light from the trees veiled them, making them look like a perfect, fated couple. Each beat of my heart was a fresh stab of pain.

Underneath the photo was a wooden box.

It must have been an old box.

Its surface was worn smooth with age.

I picked it up and slowly opened it.

A morbid curiosity warred with the dread of confirming my deepest fears.

Inside the box, I saw many photos and mementos documenting Sheridan and Royce's time from their college days to vacations in the Hamptons.

There were some small trinkets as well.

It was then that all the whispered rumors clicked into place. It had all been true. I was the only one who hadn't seen it.

Now I finally understood.

I finally understood the look in Sheridan's eyes when he looked at me.

That explained the melancholy in his eyes. Why he’d paid my grandmother’s medical bills after a single glance. Why he’d chosen me…

I carefully returned everything to its place. It was the last shred of dignity I could afford myself.

Sheridan never came home again.

There was no need to guess.

He was undoubtedly staying at the hospital.

That way, he could take better care of Royce.

I learned this from his gallery manager.

He hadn't been to the office; he had been handling work from the hospital these days.

I listened to the manager's report.

Then I couldn't help but laugh at myself.

I, who was supposed to be his partner, was now learning about his life secondhand. The irony was bitter.

It was time to end this farce.

Early in the morning, my mother, Eleonora, called me.

She told me to come home, alone.

But I didn't expect what happened next.

As soon as I arrived home, my parents got a call from the hospital.

We sped to the hospital in a black town car.

The doctors were giving Royce emergency treatment.

Sheridan was there too.

When he saw me, he avoided my gaze.

I pressed my lips together and chose to remain silent.

Eleonora was sobbing uncontrollably.

"Why does my daughter have to suffer like this?

"What did I do wrong?"

Then, she turned to me, her eyes filled with rage and resentment.

"Reina, why isn't it you lying in there?"

A weak, bitter smile touched my lips. Yeah, I thought. Why didn't I die sooner?

I tentatively glanced at Sheridan.

He was looking worriedly at Royce inside the hospital room.

He didn't spare me a single glance.

I laughed at myself.

But my eyes burned.

I once thought he was my salvation. Turns out, I was just a stand-in. A ghost he looked at to see another woman's face.