I gripped the edge of the desk, my vision blurring with tears. He had lied.
He had kept this from me. And the most terrifying question of all—
How much time did he have left?
The doctor led me down a long, sterile hallway. I was bracing myself for an explanation that wouldn’t make sense—something ridiculous, something absurd.
But deep down, I already knew.
He pushed open the door to a private room. And there he was.
Nathan.
He looked thinner, paler. His dark circles were deeper than I’d ever seen.
He was sitting up in bed, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his usual crisp button-down and slacks. The moment his eyes met mine, I saw it—the flash of guilt, the recognition. He knew I had found out.
“I was going to tell you,” he said, his voice raw.
I took a slow, shaky step forward.
“When, Nathan?” I whispered. “After I planned your funeral?”
His face crumbled. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
“I thought I could handle it on my own.” He spoke in a low tone. “It was just a routine check-up in November… and then suddenly, I was a patient instead of a doctor. I didn’t want to scare you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“You lied to me.”
“I was trying to protect you.” His eyes shone with emotion. “Because I had a pretty good chance to survive.”
I sat beside him, gripping his hand. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
A small smile touched his lips.
“Then how about this? If I make it out of this, I’ll never lie again.”
I squeezed his hand tighter. “You better keep that promise, Dr.
Carter.”
Months later, when he finally walked out of that hospital as a survivor, he kept his promise.
And when they offered him a position—not as a patient, but as a doctor once again—he looked at me, his eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen in a long time.
Hope.
Source: amomama
