It started as a dull pain, almost forgettable at first. A twinge in his side while cooking, a brief stiffness when he woke up. Ethan brushed it off. He blamed fatigue, stress, long hours at work. After all, he had bigger concerns: Luna's constant absence, the empty apartment, the silence where laughter used to live.
But the ache didn't go away.
One evening, after Luna had gone out again—another night with Maya, another night of loud music and flashing lights—Ethan sat at the kitchen table, rubbing his side. The food he had prepared for her sat untouched. The hum of the refrigerator sounded louder than usual, echoing his growing worry.
He tried to ignore it. He tried to focus on the little things: the way her hair fell across her pillow when she slept, the way she laughed absentmindedly at her phone, the way her feet tapped in rhythm to music only she could hear. He started carrying his camera around, not knowing exactly why, until one night he pointed it at her while she slept, just to hold onto the moment.
It was strange at first—he felt guilty—but it also felt right. Somehow, capturing her without her knowing became a way to protect her from himself, from the growing shadow inside him.
Finally, the pain got worse. Sharp. Unrelenting. One morning, after cooking breakfast she would never touch, he collapsed slightly as he lifted a pan. Fear gripped him for the first time in months.
He went to the hospital alone.
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and despair. He watched people move around him, some in pain, some anxious, some resigned. When the doctor finally called him in, Ethan listened quietly, gripping the edge of the chair.
"Mr. Reyes," the doctor said carefully, "your tests… show a serious condition. Pancreatic cancer. It's advanced. I'm very sorry, but this is aggressive. We'll do everything we can to help, but… time is limited."
Ethan nodded, holding his breath. He didn't cry. He didn't speak. The world didn't shatter around him. It felt… strangely calm.
Because he had already made his choice.
He would not tell Luna. He would not burden her with his pain, with the reality that their time together was numbered. He would smile, cook, wait, and continue loving her—quietly, invisibly, secretly—until his last breath.
That night, back at their apartment, he placed his camera on the shelf, facing the bed. He started recording. Every small movement she made. Every sigh, every stretch, every hair falling across her face while she slept.
He didn't know how much time he had left. He didn't know how long he could hold onto her this way.
All he knew was that love, in its purest form, sometimes required silence.
And sometimes, it required watching over someone—without them ever knowing.