The fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped insects above them, their harsh glow reflecting off the scuffed linoleum floors in nauseating waves. Mike's fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against the chair's cracked vinyl armrest, each tap echoing louder in his ears than the last. The scent of antiseptic clung to everything - so strong he could taste it at the back of his throat - undercut by the acrid tang of stale coffee from the half-empty cup Dr. Kelper had set aside hours ago. Or was it minutes? Time had become elastic in this liminal space between knowing and not-knowing.

  Mike's knee bounced uncontrollably, making the entire chair tremble. He could feel Trish's eyes on him, that familiar worried crease between her brows he'd seen so often during their years together. Her hand - warm and steady against his clammy skin - was the only anchor keeping him from floating away entirely. The ghost of her jasmine shampoo cut through the hospital smells, a fleeting reminder of better days.

  Dr. Kelper's office was a study in controlled chaos. Medical journals piled haphazardly on shelves, framed credentials on the wall behind him, a wilting peace lily in the corner that had long since given up its fight for survival. The doctor himself looked like he hadn't slept in days, his white coat wrinkled, the shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. Yet his hands moved with deliberate precision as he organized the damning paperwork before them.

  The clock on the wall ticked with metronomic cruelty. Each second stretched taut, winding the tension in Mike's chest tighter until he could barely breathe. He focused on the way Trish's thumb moved across his knuckles - up, across, down, repeat - a lifeline in the gathering storm.

  When Dr. Kelper finally removed his glasses, the frames left angry red indentations on either side of his nose. He didn't bother with platitudes or gentle lead-ins. The slight tremor in his hands as he set down the papers told Mike everything he needed to know before the first word was spoken.

  Trish's grip tightened. Mike realized distantly that she'd stopped breathing. The air between them crackled with unspoken dread, thick enough to choke on. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor alarm blared, then was abruptly silenced.

  Dr. Kelper's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. In that terrible pause, Mike's entire life flashed before him - not in images, but in sensations: his sister pranking him as children, his father giving him life lectures as they went fishing together, the smell of his mother's perfume as she hugged him goodbye before college. All the ordinary moments he'd taken for granted, now suddenly precious.

  The doctor's first words came like a hammer falling:

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Paul.”

  Mike’s breath hitched. He already knew. Somewhere deep down, he’d known the moment the first twinge of pain had flared in his leg months ago, the moment he collapsed in his apartment and trish rushed him to the hospital. His family history was a graveyard of the same story—his father, his mother, his sister—all taken by the same ruthless disease. And like them, he’d ignored the signs, dismissed the symptoms, because what was the point? His insurance wouldn’t cover the tests.

  “It’s osteosarcoma. Bone cancer.”

  A cold numbness spread through Mike’s chest. The words echoed, distant, like they were being spoken through water.

  “And the tests show that it’s quite far along already.”

  Dr. Kelper paused, letting the weight of the diagnosis settle between them. Mike’s vision blurred. His hands—once steady—now trembled in his lap, his throat tightening as the reality crashed over him in waves.

  Trish’s grip on his hand tightened, her fingers lacing through his. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. That simple touch was enough—a silent promise that he wasn’t alone.

  Mike swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “How long?”

  "Actually," he began, and that single word made Mike's heart stutter in his chest, "it's not terminal yet."

  The air rushed from Mike's lungs in a shuddering exhale.

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  "There's a new treatment protocol," Dr. Kelper continued, tapping the open file before him. "Immunotherapy combined with targeted radiation. The results have been..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Remarkable, in cases like yours."

  Mike felt Trish's fingers tighten around his, her nails biting into his skin just enough to ground him. He could see the cautious hope blooming in her eyes, the way her shoulders straightened infinitesimally.

  "But," the doctor continued, and that single syllable landed like a blow, "there's a significant complication. The treatment requires near-constant blood transfusions during the first phase. And your blood type..." He flipped a page in the chart. "Is rare and difficult to find compatible matches."

  The rollercoaster plunged again. Mike's vision tunneled, the medical certificates on the wall blurring into meaningless shapes.

  "How..." Mike's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, trying again. "How long without it?"

  Before Dr. Kelper could respond, Trish's chair screeched against the linoleum as she surged forward.

  "Take mine." The words rang like a gunshot in the sterile room.

  Both men turned to her. Trish had pushed up her sleeve, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of her bicep. The fluorescent lights caught the silver of her medical alert bracelet - the one Mike knew she never took off.

  "I'm O negative," she said, her voice steady as a surgeon's hand. "Universal donor. You can have as much as you need."

  Dr. Kelper's eyebrows climbed his forehead. He reached for her wrist, turning it to examine the bracelet. "You're certain?"

  "Positive." A ghost of a smile touched her lips at the medical pun, but her eyes remained deadly serious. "I donate every eight weeks like clockwork. Check your records - Trish Delaney, donor ID 58734."

  The doctor's posture changed instantly, his shoulders squaring as he reached for the phone. "I'll need to order compatibility tests immediately, but if-"

  Mike couldn't speak. The tears came hot and fast, streaking down his face as he stared at the woman he'd loved and lost, who was now offering him literal pieces of herself. His mouth worked soundlessly, all the words he should have said years ago crowding his throat.

  Trish turned to him, her free hand garbing Mike’s. Her palm was warm against his skin, rough from years of mechanic work.

  "Hey," she murmured, her thumb brushing away a tear. "You don't get to check out early, Mike. Not when you still owe me for ignoring me for the past few months."

  The words swelled in Mike's chest—a tidal wave of gratitude, regret, and love that threatened to crack him open. He wanted to tell her everything—how her presence had been the only light in his darkest days, how he'd memorized the exact pattern of freckles on her shoulders like constellations, how he still woke some mornings reaching for her side of the bed. But his throat constricted, the emotions too vast for language, and all that escaped was a shuddering breath.

  The hospital walls began to waver like heat mirages. The scent of antiseptic faded. Reality bled through the dream's edges in pixelated fragments, but Mike clung desperately to the disintegrating moment—one last chance to say what he'd never got to say.

  "Trish," he choked out, his voice raw as exposed nerve endings. He caught her hands—how were they already turning translucent?—and pressed them to his pounding heart. "Thank you. For staying when anyone else would've left. For seeing the man I could've been instead of the wreck I was." A sob tore through him. "I'm so sorry—for beginning such a bad boyfriend, for—"

  "Mikey." Her laugh was just as he remembered—warm and rich. Her thumbs brushed away tears he hadn't realized were falling. "You think our breakup was all on you? I ran at the first sign of real commitment. Couldn't handle the 'in sickness' part of the vows we never took. But now, I wish I had committed. So that we could have spent a little more time together."

  Mike's chest ached with the weight of a thousand might-have-beens. "No happy ending for me though. That’s not how my story goes," he murmured, watching their surroundings fade to monochrome.

  Trish's ghostly hand cupped his cheek. "But, you had a happy beginning." Memories of leaves turned into falling snow—Christmas morning, their third year together, when she'd surprised him with that ridiculous ugly sweater all flashed before him. "You had parents who adored you. A sister who texted me memes about you. Friends who would have stayed by you till the end if they hadn't gone before you." Her voice grew distant, echoing. "And me. Always me, loving you in every timeline."

  The room dissolved into starlight. Mike felt himself waking, the dream's gravity loosening its hold. "Then yeah," he breathed, clinging to her fading warmth. "I'd do it all again. Every damn second."

  "Mikey..." Her voice echoed as if coming from the far end of a long tunnel. Her hand - once warm and solid in his - now felt like mist between his fingers. "The next time you dream..."

  A cold wind seemed to blow through the disintegrating world, though neither of their hairs moved. The temperature drop was metaphysical, the kind of chill that settles in the marrow of bones

  "...it will be the most painful yet. So keep me close," she whispered, her voice now barely audible over the rising wind. "Keep all of us who love you right here-" Her ghostly fingers taped over his heart. Just remember... none of it's real... but our love is..."

  The final threads of the dream snapped, and Kai awoke.

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