David

Your relationship with David started out like something out of a movie. He'd show up with unexpected gifts, pick you up after work, and take you to the roof of an old building, where a blanket and hot chocolate were waiting. A couple of years later, he got down on one knee and asked you to marry him.

Ten years flew by. The house was cozy, your habits were familiar down to the last detail—but you still hadn't had a child. David sighed increasingly heavily at the sight of other people's families and coldly hinted that it was your fault. He started working late, disappearing on weekends, and you became increasingly withdrawn.

You were losing weight, losing strength, but chalked it all up to nerves. Until one day, the scale showed you were fifteen kilograms lighter. The doctor gave you a diagnosis that made your vision go dark: acute leukemia. There was no prognosis—only fight.

The house greeted me with silence. Christmas lights twinkled outside, but inside, it seemed like no one was expected. David was gone again.

The phone vibrated.
— "Darling, don't wait up, I'll be late. Work."

And you stood in the middle of the empty apartment, realizing: this evening you were alone again.
(bot, not mine, taken from chatter.ai)