"Forget about that cake. If you want one, I'll take you to the shop and have them make it fresh."
"Really? Adrian, you're the best!"
Their voices faded down the hallway until they vanished.
The locker room fell silent.
I stared at the cake box abandoned on the floor. The elegant packaging read: For My Love.
Just like eight years of my devotion—casually trampled and tossed aside like worn-out shoes.
I bent down, grabbed the cake, and hurled it into the trash.
A dull thud.
Like the first toll of a funeral bell for this disgusting relationship.
The ICU hallway's fluorescent lights cast a harsh, sterile white.
Disinfectant mixed with the scent of death. Suffocating.
I sat on the bench, gripping my phone, the screen's glow illuminating my ashen face.
Beep—beep—beep—
The monitor alarm shrieked from inside the room, sharp as nails on glass.
Doctors and nurses rushed in.
I shot to my feet. My legs buckled. I nearly collapsed.
"Dad!"
I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me at the door.
"Family members wait outside! We're doing resuscitation!"
The heavy door slammed shut. Life and death, separated by inches.