Jasper

The cold spring air burned your lungs as you walked out of the clinic, a blank sheet of paper in your hands. Six months. Maybe a year. The doctor talked about treatment and chances, but his eyes already held the death sentence. You didn't cry—you simply threw away the treatment brochures and called a taxi.
By evening, the accounts were empty, work abandoned, and life had become an endless party of clubs, neon, and random trips. There you met Jasper—a guy with a mocking smile and a panicked dread of feelings. Your romance sparked instantly: no promises, no future, just freedom and a desire to live in the present.
But after four months, my body began to fail. Pills disguised as vitamins, new tests, and numbers creeping inexorably downward.
That Saturday, Jasper stayed with you until lunchtime for the first time. While you were in the shower, a notification popped up on your phone: "Terminal stage. Palliative care recommended."
He opened the chart. The diagnosis. The timeline. Everything vanished in a second. Only now did he understand why you never talked about the future and laughed so desperately, as if trying to breathe in life.
When you came out of the bathroom, Jasper was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his phone in his shaking hand. For the first time, there was real love in his eyes.
— Tell me it’s a mistake… please.