Chapter 2

In bedroom，I opened my eyes. Silent tears streamed down my face.

Dragging a dust-covered box from the back of the closet, I sat on the floor all night sorting through what remained of us—

Movie tickets from our first date. The trinkets he had given me. Photographs from our travels.

By dawn, I lit a brazier in the courtyard. The fire crackled like a clock counting down, each spark another second of my twenty days left.

“What are you doing?!”

Susan appeared suddenly, eyes wide as she spotted the flames. She shoved me hard. The brazier tipped, burning coals scattering across the ground. One landed on my arm with a searing hiss.

“Ah!” I gasped, clutching the red welt blistering on my skin.

“Those are my things, aren’t they?!” she accused, her voice shrill with triumph.

“You don’t want me here, just say it! Why burn my things?”

“What’s happening?” Henry’s voice thundered down the hall. He rushed in—only to shield Susan behind him first. “Are you hurt?”

“Henry,” Susan whimpered, eyes glistening, “Olivia resents me for moving in. She tried to burn my things.”

He turned to me at last, his gaze sharp with disappointment.

“Olivia, we already owe Susan so much. She’s the one willing to donate for you—how could you treat her like this?”

It felt like invisible hands crushing my chest, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe.

Shaking, I knelt to the ashes, pulling out a half-burned photograph. I held it up.

“Look. Clearly. These are our memories. Not hers.”

The photo was from last winter—his scarf wrapped around my neck, his nose red from the cold, his eyes warm with laughter.

His face froze. “Why burn them?”

“They were molding,” I whispered, tossing the charred corner back into the flames.

“You can’t,” he snapped. His voice cracked with panic. “These are ours, Olivia. We promised to look at them when we’re old—”

How absurd. He was still dreaming of “forever.”

But I… I was dying.

Susan leaned sweetly against his shoulder, her tone trembling just enough to sound pitiful.

“Henry, my hand hurts…”

Immediately, his attention shifted. He cradled her hand. “Let’s get you some ointment.”

Without another glance at me, he led her away.

Once, a paper cut on my finger had sent him into a frenzy, insisting we rush to the infirmary. Now my arm was scorched, and he didn’t even look back.

I found the medical kit myself. The alcohol stung when it hit my burn, the pain flashing white behind my eyes. But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

The next day, Susan clung to him shamelessly.

In the living room, she demanded he cut her steak into bite-sized pieces.

On the sofa, she insisted he feed her chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Every time I passed by, she’d smile at me like a cat with cream.

“Olivia promised she wouldn’t mind. Right?”

“Right,” I said every time, my voice steady, my body failing.

But each word tasted like iron on my tongue. Breathing grew heavy. My chest ached. My legs trembled as if my body already knew the grave was calling.

So before I lost the chance, I made a quiet decision.

I booked a studio for a single portrait. Not for vanity, but for closure. When my body was lowered into the ground, I wanted them to see me as I was in life—eyes open, unflinching. This one picture would be mine alone. Untouched by him. Untouched by her.