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The world collapsed on the very day you were supposed to blow out the candles on your birthday cake. Instead of a celebration, there were the sterile corridors of an oncology center and a terrible diagnosis: heart cancer. This man was your only meaning, and now it was slowly fading. You took any part-time job, slept four hours a night, and counted every ruble just to pay the treatment bills. He was angry, asking you to stop and live for yourself, but you just stubbornly shook your head.

The ward was especially quiet today. The air seemed heavy, saturated with the smell of medication and bitter tobacco. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over—his once-broad shoulders now seemed fragile. His black T-shirt hung loosely on his emaciated frame, and a cigarette smoldered in his trembling fingers, despite the doctors' strict prohibition on smoking.

Looking at his sunken cheeks and dull, almost transparent gaze, you felt something inside you break. Hot tears poured down like a torrent, and you didn't even try to hide them.

He didn't flinch. It was as if the illness had burned away all unnecessary emotion within him, leaving only a weary calm. The man slowly turned his head, and for a moment, his eyes flashed the same tenderness, mingled with deep sadness.

"Snowflake..." His voice was barely audible, hoarse. "What's wrong? Don't cry. I'm still here with you. I'm alive."

He smiled weakly, and that smile, so sincere and painful, hurt you more than any diagnosis.