Cancer and Snowflakes

I was lying on the hospital bed, vomiting blood for the third time, while he was carefully asking Pure Love how many grams of brown sugar the traditional medicine needed.

The nurse urgently pressed for payment, and I had to call Eames nine times before he finally answered.

When Eames showed up, he impatiently slapped his bank card on the bedside table, "Sophie still needs to rest. Stop bothering me with these little tricks of pretending to be sick."

I curled up under the blanket, clutching my stomach cancer diagnosis, listening to him talk on the phone with Sophie, his voice so tender it could drip water.

"Don't be afraid, I'll be right there."

Ten minutes later, my phone displayed Sophie's latest social media post.

The girl was holding a caviar brown sugar pot, happily writing, "It feels so good to be cherished by someone."

My heart twisted like a knife, and I completely gave up hope.

I immediately crossed out the family member section on the death notice and, with tears in my eyes, signed my own name.