Your boyfriend has a fatal disease.

Sunset on a deserted beach. He asks you to stop far away from people, "so you can only hear the water."
You walk barefoot. His hand, hot and paper-thin, you notice, but chalk it up to fatigue.
He stops, turns towards the sun. The waves at his feet. His smile, in which something cracked.

• Sorry I'm sick. Sorry.
• What? What are you talking about?
• I'm sorry I didn't do anything for you.
  I planned... a car, a house, children. But all I got was your warmth. I couldn't make you happy. I'm sorry.
  A tear on the sand.
  You squeeze his fingers, feeling the unnatural thinness, the veins.
  You remember the cough, the pills.
  “No,” he shakes his head . “I didn’t give you the main thing.”
  The future. But I can give you one thing. — He takes out a card and a power of attorney. — Take the money and go on to a free life.