CHAPTER — After the Diagnosis
The house was quiet when Aiman opened the door.
Too quiet.
Usually he would turn on the lights immediately.
Today, he didn't.
He stepped inside slowly and closed the door behind him.
The sound of the lock clicking echoed longer than usual.
For a moment—
he just stood there.
Not moving.
Not thinking.
Just standing in the dark.
The envelope was still in his hand.
He hadn't opened it.
Not yet.
Not even once since leaving the hospital.
He placed his bag on the chair.
Sat down.
Then stood up again.
Walked to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
Closed it again without taking anything.
He didn't feel hungry.
He didn't feel thirsty.
He didn't feel anything he could explain.
Only silence.
He walked back to the living room.
The envelope was still on the table.
Waiting.
As if it already knew he couldn't ignore it forever.
Aiman sat down slowly.
His fingers touched the edge of the envelope.
Stopped.
Pulled back.
Touched it again.
This time he opened it.
Inside were several papers.
Appointment dates.
Medical notes.
Instructions.
Warnings.
Words he didn't fully read.
Words he didn't need to read.
Because he already understood.
His hands slowly lowered onto his lap.
For a long time—
he didn't move.
"I see…"
The words came out softly.
Almost like he was answering someone who wasn't there.
He leaned back against the chair.
His eyes moved slowly across the room.
The clock on the wall.
The empty chair near the window.
The table where his phone always rested.
Everything looked the same.
Exactly the same.
But suddenly—
everything felt temporary.
He looked at his hands.
Turned them slowly.
Still steady.
Still normal.
Still strong.
Nothing about them looked like they belonged to someone running out of time.
He let out a small breath.
"So this is how it feels…"
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
He stood up and walked toward the window.
Outside, neighbours were still moving around normally.
Someone laughed.
Someone called out to a child.
Someone started a motorcycle engine.
Life continued as usual.
Only his world had changed.
His phone vibrated.
One message.
Alya.
He didn't open it immediately.
Another vibration.
Nadia.
Aiman stared at the screen.
Their names felt heavier today.
Much heavier than before.
He finally opened Alya's message.
"Did you eat already?"
Simple.
Normal.
Warm.
He smiled.
A small smile.
Then he opened Nadia's message.
"Don't forget to rest early tonight."
Another simple message.
Another normal concern.
Another reminder that they still believed tomorrow would always be there.
Aiman sat down again.
His phone rested loosely in his hand.
"How am I supposed to tell you…"
The sentence stopped halfway.
Because he already knew the answer.
He wasn't going to tell them.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
He placed the phone back on the table.
Then leaned forward slowly.
His face resting in both hands.
For the first time since morning—
his breathing changed.
Slower.
Heavier.
More careful.
Not crying.
Not yet.
But close.
Very close.
"If I disappear later…"
He whispered the words quietly.
"…will they be okay?"
The question stayed in the air.
No answer came.
Only silence answered him.
He leaned back again and looked at the ceiling.
His eyes followed the faint line across the paint above him.
He remembered something the doctor said.
"You shouldn't go through this alone."
Aiman closed his eyes.
"They shouldn't go through this with me."
That was the difference.
That was his decision.
That was his promise.
He reached for his phone again.
Opened Alya's message.
Typed slowly.
"I already ate."
Sent.
Opened Nadia's message.
Typed again.
"I'll sleep early tonight."
Sent.
Two more lies.
Two more protections.
Two more walls he built between them and the truth.
Aiman placed the phone down gently.
Then leaned back into the chair again.
His eyes slowly closed.
For the first time since leaving the hospital—
a single tear finally escaped.
Not because he was afraid to die.
But because he finally understood something clearly.
He didn't have enough time left
to love them the way they deserved.