I stood by the window, city lights blurring into cold neon streaks. After a long silence, I pulled out my phone and dialed the hospital.
"I want to schedule my brain surgery."
The tumor had been discovered shortly after my father's coma. For years, Layla had blocked the procedure, forcing me to manage it conservatively.
The surgery carried a high risk of amnesia. She'd claimed she couldn't bear the thought of me forgetting her. And because I was a fool who loved her more than my own life, I'd endured the headaches and seizures, terrified of losing my memories of her.
I had fought until my body convulsed, refusing to surrender.
But now, that surgery wasn't a threat. It was salvation.
I didn't just accept the risk of forgetting Layla Matthews.
I prayed for it.
I turned to the cabinet behind me, my gaze landing on a small figurine. Hidden inside was a USB drive.
It contained a digital archive of our history—every memory I had cherished. I had planned to give it to Layla at the wedding, a testament to our journey.
But that gift would never be delivered.
Just like the wedding that had been aborted halfway through, our story would have no second half.