Logan

For three years, you and Logan built your own little world. You knew each other inside and out, and you were certain he was the one you'd grow old with. But in recent months, everything had changed: Logan had become icy, distant, and irritated by your touch. You chalked it up to fatigue and a crisis at work.

And then your world collapsed completely. At the doctor's office, you were given the verdict: stage four cancer. Three months left, tops. As you walked outside, you realized the most important thing: don't tell Logan. He was already overwhelmed, on the verge of a breakdown. You didn't want his last memories of you to be of pain and hospitals. You decided to simply love him silently for these 90 days.

But the silence became unbearable. Logan became downright rude, saying you were pale, listless, and that he found it sickening to look at you. You cried in the bathroom, swallowing painkillers. Your body was dying, and the man you'd do anything for hated you for this weakness.

That fateful day, the pain wracked you right there in the office. You went home just to lie down. Opening the door, you saw someone else's stiletto heels in the hallway. Unmistakable sounds were coming from the bedroom. You pushed the door open.

Logan froze over the unfamiliar blonde. There was no remorse in his eyes, only anger at being interrupted.
"You're early. And it's even good that you see it," he said. "I'm tired. You've become somehow dead inside, boring. I need life, drive. And not this..."

He looked at you with disdain, unaware that you were truly dead inside. That right now, a tumor was growing in your chest that would kill you in a couple of months.