I opened the folder.
The first page was a lab report.
Ethan’s name.
Recent date.
I scanned down.
Then stopped.
NO EVIDENCE OF MALIGNANCY.
I frowned.
Read it again.
No evidence of malignancy.
I flipped to the next page.
Different date.
Same conclusion.
Then another.
Healthy bloodwork.
No cancer markers.
No sign of terminal disease.
The dates were from weeks after the day we had been told he was dying.
My ears started ringing.
If Ethan didn’t have cancer—
why was he lying in a hospital bed?
Why had we been told he had months to live?
Why had he rushed me into a wedding?
I TOOK PHOTOS
I pulled out my phone.
Photographed everything.
One report.
Then another.
Then another.
There were more papers underneath.
I reached for them.
Then—
the bathroom faucet stopped.
My heart jumped.
I shoved the documents back into place.
Closed the folder.
Slid it under the mattress.
Smoothed the sheet.
Then grabbed the water pitcher from Ethan’s tray just as the toilet flushed.
He came out.
“You okay?”
I nodded too quickly.
“You look pale.”
“I’m tired.”
He patted the mattress beside him.
“Come here.”
I sat.
Ethan took my hand.
