I never thought a routine check-up at the hospital would change my life. But sometimes, fate steps in when you least expect it.

Hospitals always made me uneasy—the cold, sterile smell, the quiet hum of machines, and the hushed voices of doctors and nurses moving through the halls. But most of all, hospitals reminded me of loss. The memory of my mother lying in a hospital bed, fading with each passing day, haunted me. I had been too young to do anything but watch.

Shaking off the painful past, I focused on the present. This was just a check-up after a bad flu. Nothing more. I tapped my fingers against my knee, anxious to get it over with.

A man sat down beside me. I glanced at him, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes. They were the most beautiful I had ever seen—deep, warm, filled with something I couldn’t quite name. He noticed me staring and raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling into a teasing smile.

“Oh,” I blurted, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I—um—your eyes are beautiful. I got lost in them.”

My hands flew to my face. Why did I say that out loud? I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

A chuckle broke the silence. “No one’s ever flirted with me in a hospital before,” he said, his voice rich with amusement.

“That wasn’t flirting!” I groaned. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to.”

He grinned. “Still sounds like flirting.”

I peeked at him through my fingers. He was still smiling.

He held out a hand. “Paul.”

I hesitated for only a second before shaking it. “Linda.”

His grip was warm, steady. I felt a flutter in my chest.

“So, what brings you here, Linda?” he asked.

“Just a check-up after the flu. You?”

“Picking up some test results.”

I hesitated. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Paul shrugged. “Illnesses tend to stay away from me,” he said playfully.

I smiled. I wanted to keep talking, but just then, a nurse called my name.

“Looks like it’s my turn,” I said. “It was nice meeting you.”

As I stood, Paul grabbed a magazine, tore out a page, and scribbled something on it.

“What are you doing?” I laughed.

He handed me the page. “I really wish that had been flirting,” he said with a wink. “Guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

I looked down. His phone number.

A smile tugged at my lips. “I’ll call,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

I walked into the doctor’s office, my heart racing.

That evening, I gave in and called.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t,” Paul teased when he picked up.

“I almost didn’t,” I admitted. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoed.

That call led to our first date. Then another. And another.

Paul made everything feel effortless. He listened, really listened, when I talked. He made me laugh until my sides ached. He always knew when I needed a coffee, when I was cold, when I was tired.

After a few dates, we stopped pretending. We were together. And from the very first moment, I knew—Paul was the man I wanted forever.

Months passed, and our love deepened. One evening, as we lay on my couch, his arms wrapped around me, I traced small circles on his chest, my thoughts swirling.

I took a deep breath. “Paul.”

He hummed in response, tightening his arms around me.

“I love you.”

He stilled. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek. Then he tilted my chin up, meeting my gaze.

“And why would that be a problem?” he asked, smiling.

“Because now you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

Paul chuckled. “That sounds perfect to me.” He kissed me softly. “I love you too, Linda. More than anything.”

That night, wrapped in his warmth, I felt like the happiest woman alive.

But happiness can be fragile. And mine was about to shatter.

Less than a week after we confessed our love, Paul disappeared.

No texts. No calls. Just… nothing.

At first, I thought he was busy. But as hours turned into days, panic clawed at my chest. I called again and again. Straight to voicemail. I imagined the worst—an accident, a hospital bed, him lying alone, needing me.

Then my phone buzzed.

@Paul: I’m fine. But I need you to stop calling and texting me.

I stared at the message, my heart racing.

@Me: Are you joking? Where have you been?

@Paul: It doesn’t matter. Just stop texting me.

@Me: Can you at least explain?

@Paul: I don’t love you. I lied. I don’t want you in my life.

The words crushed me.

I called again. Blocked.

I cried for days, trying to make sense of it. Then, weeks later, I found a note tucked inside my drawer. Paul’s handwriting.

I hope you find this note when you’re feeling sad. I love you, Linda, and I always will.

Tears filled my eyes. If he never loved me, why would he write this?

I needed answers.

I drove straight to his apartment, banging on his door, shouting his name. When it finally opened, my breath caught.

Paul stood before me—thin, weak, almost unrecognizable. His skin was pale, his cheeks hollow.

His voice was rough. “What are you doing here?”

I reached out, touching his cheek. His skin was warm but fragile, like glass. “What happened to you?” I whispered.

Paul stepped back. “Please, go.”

I shook my head. “No! Tell me the truth!”

He clenched his fists. “I’m dying,” he said, his voice cracking.

The world spun. “What?”

Paul sighed and stepped aside. “Come in.”

I walked in, my heart pounding. The apartment was dim, lifeless.

“I have cancer,” he admitted. “I’m dying.”

Tears burned my eyes. “How long have you known?”

“Since the day we met.”

Pain sliced through me. “How could you keep this from me?”

Paul lowered his gaze. “I thought the treatment would work. But it didn’t. It’s getting worse. And I didn’t want you to go through this again. Not after your mom.” His voice wavered. “That’s why I pushed you away.”

Tears streamed down my face. “You should have told me.”

Paul looked at me, eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“How long?” I whispered.

“A week. Maybe days.”

I gasped. “Oh, Paul,” I whispered. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He held me close. “I love you, Linda.”

“You should have told me,” I sobbed. “I should have been there.”

“That’s why you’re here now,” he whispered.

That night, Paul lay in my arms, his body weak but his heart full. “Just being near you makes me feel better,” he murmured.

I kissed his forehead. “I love you, Paul. I love you so much.”

His fingers curled around mine, his grip light. His breathing slowed. Then, it stopped.

The silence was deafening.

I held him, unable to let go.

A part of me died with him.

Love had found me in the most unexpected place. And though it was brief, it was real. It was ours.

And I would carry it with me forever.