ManyWriters

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.

Cancer and Snowflakes

"I will fall in love with you!" Eames's eyes were as cold as looking at trash. "Bribing a doctor to forge abortion records, attempted murder - who knows how many years that's worth in prison?"


But as Sophie was being dragged away, she still showed no remorse, screaming defiantly, "Eames, you'll regret this! She's almost dead anyway!"


In the days that followed, my condition grew increasingly dire.


Eames would drag his crippled leg to my hospital room every day without fail, bringing me soup.


"Frostine, today's soup has your favorite potatoes in it."


He carefully opened the thermos, his damaged leg trembling slightly.


I caught a glimpse of the blisters on the back of his hand, reminding me of how I used to humbly tend to him all these years, watching over a clay pot as I simmered stomach-soothing broths for him daily.


After all, as a dying person, there was no need to make things awkward.


Chapter 10