The week slipped by in a haze of quiet bliss, wrapped in the luxury of Kieran's penthouse. Days blurred together—mornings with him carrying me to the balcony for fresh air, his arms strong and careful around me; afternoons napping against his chest while he worked on his laptop, fingers absently stroking my hair; evenings with the girls dropping by, filling the space with laughter and takeout, Kieran joining in with his rare, soft smiles.
He never left me alone for long—always checking vitals, adjusting oxygen, massaging my aches away with those precise, reverent hands. Nights were ours: slow kisses turning hungry, his mouth and fingers bringing me to shattering release again and again, each time whispering how much he loved me, how perfect I was. My body felt weaker by the day—the tumor's grip tightening, breaths shallower—but in his arms, I felt alive. Cherished. Loved.
Then, that quiet Tuesday afternoon, everything broke.
We were on the sofa, watching a movie—when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, face going blank. Answered in a low, controlled voice.
"Yes… I understand… Both? When? … Thank you for telling me."
He hung up. Turned to me slowly.
"Blossom…" His voice cracked—eyes watering. "Your grandparents… Grandpa and Grandma… they passed away this morning. At home. Together."
"No," I whispered. "No… they were fine. They were supposed to visit next week . Grandma said she'd bring sweets . Grandpa promised he'd read me his old stories again. They can't—"
Kieran's voice cracked:
"It was peaceful," he murmured. "Old age… and worry. The doctor said their hearts just… gave out. They went together. Holding hands. No pain."
The words landed like a physical blow—quiet, final, merciless.
For one frozen heartbeat, the penthouse was silent except for the soft hiss of my oxygen concentrator.
Then the scream tore out of me.
It wasn't a sob. It was a raw, animal sound—ripping from somewhere deep inside, from the place where I'd buried every abandonment, every loss, every time someone left me behind. My chest seized—not the tumor this time, but grief so violent it felt like my ribs might crack open.
"No—no—no—" The word repeated like a broken record, high and keening. My hands flew to my face, nails digging into my scalp. Tears flooded instantly—hot, blinding. My whole body convulsed—shaking so hard the wheelchair rattled against the floor.
"They can't—" I gasped, choking on the words. "They can't be gone. Grandma promised… she promised she was coming next week… Grandpa said he'd tell me his stories again… they said they'd visit… they said—"
My lungs burned. Breaths came in short, panicked wheezes—each one stabbing deeper into my chest.
The tumor felt like it was squeezing in retaliation, punishing me for every cry. Oxygen sats plummeted; the monitor app on Kieran's phone screamed warnings—red numbers flashing, alarms beeping frantically.
Kieran dropped to his knees in front of me—hands cupping my face, thumbs wiping tears that wouldn't stop.
"Blossom—breathe," he said urgently, voice cracking despite his calm. "In through your nose—slow—out through your mouth. I've got you. Focus on me. Please, baby, breathe."
But I couldn't. The grief was a tidal wave—crushing, drowning. "They worried themselves to death," I wailed. "Because of me. Because I'm dying. Because they couldn't save me. They sold everything—everything—for me—and now they're gone. I killed them. I—"
"You didn't," he said fiercely, pulling me against his chest. His arms locked around me—strong, unyielding. "You did nothing wrong. They loved you. They chose to fight for you. They died loved. Peacefully. Together. That's not your fault. It's not."
But the sobs wouldn't stop. They shook me—violent, choking—each one stabbing my chest harder. My vision spotted black at the edges. Breathing turned to gasps—shallow, desperate. The tumor pressed inward—clawing, punishing. My hands clutched his shirt—nails digging in—trying to anchor myself.
"Kieran—" I wheezed. "I can't—I can't breathe—"
He lifted me instantly—bridal style—rushed to the bedroom. Laid me on the bed, oxygen mask pressed to my face, hands checking pulse, listening to my chest.
"Stay with me," he pleaded—voice raw, terrified. "Don't leave me. Please. Fight. For me."
The world narrowed—black at the edges. Pain everywhere. Grief. Loss. Loneliness.
Then—nothing.
---
The funeral was three days later—a small, rain-soaked cemetery on the city's edge.
Gray skies wept steadily, turning the grass to mud. I sat in the wheelchair—blankets tucked around me, oxygen tank strapped to the back—flanked by Kieran on one side, the girls on the other. A few distant relatives stood under umbrellas—awkward, quiet, already drifting away.
Two caskets—side by side—lowered into the earth together.
The moment the first clod of dirt hit the wood, something inside me shattered.
A scream ripped out—raw, guttural, animal. My hands flew to my face—nails raking my cheeks, trying to claw the pain out. Tears poured—hot, blinding, mixing with rain. My whole body convulsed—sobs so violent they shook the chair. My chest seized—sharp, stabbing—lungs burning with every ragged inhale.
"They're gone," I wailed. "They're gone—they're gone—they're gone—"
Camila dropped to her knees beside me—arms around my shoulders, crying too. "Blossom—oh god, Blossom—"
Isabella collapsed next—sobbing openly, clutching my hand. "Grandma… Grandpa… it's not fair—"
Aveline cried silently—tears streaming, hand on my back. Ayla gripped my other shoulder—eyes red, voice shaking. "We're here. We're here."
But I couldn't hear them. Grief swallowed everything. The tumor punished every sob—chest squeezing, breaths turning to wheezes. Oxygen sats plummeted; the portable monitor screamed warnings—red numbers flashing, alarms piercing the rain.
Kieran knelt in the mud in front of me—hands cupping my face, thumbs wiping tears and rain.
"Breathe, baby," he pleaded—voice cracking. "In… out. Slow. Look at me. Focus on me. I've got you."
But I couldn't. "They died because of me," I sobbed. "They worried—they worried themselves to death—because I'm dying—because I'm killing everyone—"
"You didn't," he said fiercely, pulling me against his chest—rain soaking us both. "You did nothing. They loved you. They chose to love you. They died loved. Peacefully. Together. That's not your fault. It's not."
The girls huddled closer—crying harder, arms around us both—trying to shield me from the rain, from the pain, from the truth.
But the pain didn't stop. My chest seized—sharp, stabbing. Breathing turned to gasps—shallow, desperate. Vision blurred—black spots dancing. The monitor screamed louder—oxygen critical, heart rate erratic.
Kieran scooped me from the chair—bridal style—rushed me to his car through the rain. Laid me in the backseat, oxygen mask pressed to my face, hands checking pulse, listening to my chest.
"Stay with me, Blossom," he begged—voice raw, breaking. "Don't leave me. Please. Fight. For me. For us."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
At the hospital—emergency bay—they rushed me in. Kieran barking orders—doctor mode snapping on, but his eyes wild, terrified. Monitors screamed. Fluids. Defibrillator on standby. Tumor hemorrhage—lungs filling with blood. Heart failing.
He stayed—scrubbed in, hovering—face pale, hands steady but shaking when no one looked.
"Fight, baby," he whispered when they wheeled me to ICU. "I need you. I love you. Don't leave me."
I blacked out—chest on fire, body shutting down.
Near death.
And all I could think, in the haze, was his voice—begging me to stay.