“I’m terminal, not contagious.” She looked at me. I could see how wounded she was. The way her eyes pleaded for understanding. Friendship. Hope. The fear they contained of being abandoned by everyone she’d known. That slight tremble in her hands. The way she rested them on her lap. So they wouldn’t sake.
There are times I hate our society. What it’s done to us. How we don’t care for each other anymore. As if we’re all replaceable parts in some machine somewhere. And all that matters is that we don’t get broken, so we don’t have to be replaced.
“Fuck the rules,” I thought. “I don’t care if I get hurt. I don’t care if I cry when she’s gone. I can’t let her hurt this way. I can’t. Not while my heart still beats.” I knelt on the floor, in front of her. I put my hands on hers leaned forward, and wrapped my arms around her neck, hugging her. I didn’t let go for a while.
She cried until the shoulder of my shirt was damp with her tears. But I didn’t let her go. I knew that she’d die, soon. A few weeks, or months. I’d cry when she died. But so long as my heart still beat within my chest, I would not let her face the final days she had in life alone.