I woke up to sunlight streaming across my face, warm and golden. For a moment, I let myself pretend everything was normal. That today wasn't the day I started chemotherapy. That today wasn't the day my life would change forever.
But reality crashed back the moment I sat up, nausea curling in my stomach even before treatment began. Anxiety, they said. Common in cancer patients.
Cancer patient.
The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
I showered slowly, letting hot water scald my skin until it turned pink. As if I could scrub away the disease festering inside me. As if I could scrub away the years of silent tears and empty love.
When I stepped out wrapped in a towel, Logan stood in the doorway, dressed immaculately in a charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted. His gray eyes swept over me briefly before landing on his Rolex.
"You're going to be late."
My throat burned. "It's my first chemo session."
"Yes." His voice was calm, cold, bored. "Take one of the drivers. I need the Rolls for my meetings today."
I nodded, swallowing the lump of pain. I shouldn't have expected anything else.
I dressed in comfortable leggings and a soft cotton sweater, tying my hair in a loose braid. As I applied sunscreen to my pale face, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
Same brown eyes, same full lips, same delicate nose. But something was different.
For the first time in years, I saw my own strength staring back.
---
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and sadness. I walked past women with bald heads and men with hollowed eyes. Fear twisted in my chest, but I kept my chin high as a nurse led me to the chemo suite.
"First time, sweetheart?" she asked kindly.
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
She guided me to a recliner and hooked up the IV line. The cold liquid snaked through my veins, and I clenched my fists against the burning sensation.
"Here." She tucked a warm blanket around me. "Try to rest."
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles as silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I thought of Logan, sitting in his glass office overlooking Manhattan, signing billion-dollar deals, while I lay here fighting for a life he didn't care if I lost.
I thought of my art, gathering dust in the corner of my room.
I thought of my fifteen-year-old self sketching cherry blossoms by the Hudson, believing that love would save her.
Love didn't save me.
Cancer did.
Because for the first time in my life, I had nothing left to lose. And that meant I could finally live for myself.
---
When the session ended four hours later, I felt like death. My stomach churned, and every bone in my body ached. I stumbled out to the curb, the harsh summer sun blinding me. I shielded my eyes with shaking hands, searching for the car Logan's driver brought.
But no one was there.
My phone buzzed.
Logan: The driver had to take an urgent package to the office. Get a cab.
I stared at his text, bile rising in my throat. I had just finished my first chemo. My body was breaking down cell by cell, and he couldn't even spare a damn car.
I hailed a yellow cab and slumped into the back seat, pressing my burning forehead against the cool window. Tears rolled silently down my face as the city passed in a blur of lights and shadows.
When I reached the penthouse, I barely made it to the elevator. The doorman tried to help, but I waved him off. Pride was all I had left.
---
Inside, the apartment was silent. Pristine. Empty.
I dropped my bag and walked straight to the guest room – my room – and collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball. My body felt heavy, as if it had turned to lead.
I lay there, trembling, staring at the blank canvas propped against the wall. Yesterday's painting – a violent storm of reds and blacks – leaned beside it, half-finished.
Suddenly, I pushed myself up, ignoring the nausea that twisted my gut. I grabbed my brush, dipped it into black paint, and dragged it across the canvas in long, angry strokes.
My tears fell, mixing with the wet paint, creating blurred lines that looked like rain.
I painted my pain.
I painted my rage.
I painted my freedom.
---
Hours later, I woke up on the floor, paint staining my hands and clothes, my body aching so badly I could barely move. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
And in the doorway, Logan stood watching me.
His tie was loosened, his hair slightly ruffled, eyes shadowed in the dim light. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Finally, his gaze drifted to the canvas, to the angry blacks and desperate grays screaming across white emptiness.
"What is this?" he asked quietly.
"My soul," I whispered hoarsely, tears slipping down my face. "Something you'll never understand."
His jaw tightened. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes – guilt? Regret? But it vanished before I could catch it.
"Clean yourself up," he said stiffly. "You look pathetic."
And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like a gavel sealing my fate.
I pressed my forehead against the cool paint, sobbing silently.
I wasn't dying because of cancer.
I was dying because I spent three years loving a man who never once loved me back.
But not anymore.
This was the first goodbye.
And it wouldn't be the last.