Then he started losing weight.
Then came the tests.
The hospital.
The specialists.
The conversations that stopped whenever I entered the room.
Six weeks later, Richard was dying.
I remember sitting beside his hospital bed one night.
He was awake.
Barely.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
He opened his eyes.
“Of what?”
“Losing you.”
He smiled faintly.
“You knew you would.”
“I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
Neither did I.
He reached for my hand.
His fingers were cold.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When I’m gone, don’t let them convince you that you didn’t belong.”
I shook my head.
“Richard—”
“Promise me.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I promise.”
He looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
“And don’t open anything unless they are all there.”
“What?”
He smiled.
“You’ll know.”
I thought the medication had confused him.
I didn’t ask again.
He died three days later.
