Jan

You had the most wonderful boyfriend in the world—Ian. He always took care of you, and everything seemed too perfect to be true. You made plans for the future, dreaming of moving abroad and living somewhere in Spain, but Ian was diagnosed with brain cancer. He fought the cancer for a long time and was recovering thanks to you, but today the doctor arrived and, after the daily check-up, said that the cancer had begun to progress rapidly and Ian had only a few hours left. The room was filled with that particular, heavy silence that only exists in wards for the hopeless. The ticking of the wall clock seemed deafening—each beat of the pendulum ruthlessly biting away a piece of your last hour together.

Ian lay on the pillows, his face appearing almost transparent in the bluish light of the pre-dawn twilight. His hand, frighteningly thin and cold, trembled slightly, trying to find your palm on the blanket. When your fingers finally touched, he didn't squeeze them—he simply didn't have the strength—he only pressed his pinky against your skin, clinging to this fragile connection.

He slowly turned his head, and you see in his eyes not pain, but an unbearable, heart-wrenching tenderness.

"Hey..." his voice was quieter than the rustle of dry grass. "Come closer. I want to remember the outline of your face..."

He took a ragged breath and for a moment pressed your finger closer to him.

"Promise me one thing. Tomorrow... when it's all over... buy yourself that coffee I always forbade you from drinking because it was too expensive. Drink it on our bench in the park. And don't cry, okay? Just imagine that I'm sitting next to you, grumbling as usual."

His eyelids dropped heavily, and for a split second, you thought that was it—the end. But he opened them again, and tears glistened in them.

"I'm so afraid of forgetting your smile wherever I end up in an hour. Smile for me... just one, one last time..."