They Fell in Love While I Died Slowly

It was my seventh year sick and I was flat broke, unable to afford tomorrows painkillers. My best friend, Poppy, returned to VIP clubs, auctioning herself to the highest bidder. When I arrived, muffled sounds leaked from the lounge. Wilson, we cant. If Five finds out Then his low breathing. Something was slipped into your drink. How else do you purge it?

My nails bit into my palms until my vision blacked. Poppy later shoved crumpled bills at my bedside. Enough for your meds. Wilson stared at her scraped knees and bruised wrists, his eyes reddening. He turned to me, his gaze no longer loving but exhausted, resentful. Haze, why wont you just die? How much longer will you drag us down? Yet after screaming, he used his blood plasma donation money to buy me soup and pills, sat gnawing a stale bagel, and draped a blanket over Poppy like she was fragile treasure.

A sharp pain spread through my chest, like blades scraping bone. Tears soaked my pillow. It was okay. I was dying soon. Very soon, Id stop being their burden.

...

After Wilson shouted those words, the apartment stayed quiet for a long, long time.

Quiet enough for Wilson to finish choking down that stale half-bagel.

He brought the hot soup over to my bed, his voice choking up as he apologized.

"I am so sorry, Five. I am just... so tired."

I did not have the courage to look at him. I just kept my eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep.

Right before dawn, Poppy sat up on the worn-out sofa.

She poked a straw into a carton of sweetened almond milk and pressed it into my hand.

"Here, Five. Less sugar."

"You can't have things too sweet right now."

Her routine was as natural and practiced as always.

But when I glanced down and saw the dark purple bruises circling her wrists, my fingertips could not help but tremble.

The almond milk was sweet enough.

Yet it burned going down, leaving a bitter, agonizing taste in my throat.

Wilson was prying the lid off the takeout soup.

His hands used to be breathtaking, like they belonged to a sculptor. They were hands made for playing the piano.

He used to promise me that when I finally got better, he would play a song for me with his own two hands at our wedding.

But now, those hands were clumsy even just opening a plastic lid.

His palms were covered in thick, yellowish calluses from blisters that had burst and healed a dozen times over at the construction site.

When Wilson handed the soup to me, he blew on it out of pure habit.

But a second later, as if in a complete daze, he shifted his hand and brought the plastic spoon right to Poppy's lips.

The air in the room went so still it was suffocating.

All the color drained from Poppy's face.

Wilson snapped out of it. His wrist jerked, nearly spilling the broth everywhere.

He awkwardly redirected the spoon back to me.

I took it from him and lowered my head to take a sip.

The soup was scalding. It burned the tip of my tongue.

But I did not flinch.

Because compared to the words Wilson had thrown at me last night.

This little bit of physical pain was absolutely nothing.

The three of us huddled around the tiny folding table for breakfast.

Just like we had done a thousand times before.

Except our breakfasts used to be loud and full of life.

Poppy would try to steal the bacon off Wilson's plate.

Wilson would put on a cold face and swat her fork away.

I would sit right between them, laughing so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

And then Poppy would instantly snap at Wilson.

"Stop making her laugh! You know her lungs can't take it."

Back then, I always thought I was the luckiest girl in the entire world.

My absolute best friend sat across from me.

The love of my life sat right beside me.

One on the left, one on the right. They shielded me from everything dark in the world.

But now, it was the exact same table.

The exact same three people.

Poppy refused to look at Wilson.

Wilson refused to look at her.

Yet their eyes would inevitably collide in the spaces between seconds.

And then they would instantly, guiltily tear their gazes apart.

My throat suddenly felt tight and dry.

Not because of my failing lungs.

But because the fog had finally cleared, and I could see the truth.

It wasn't that they didn't love me anymore.

It was that they had fallen in love with each other.

And this love had taken root and blossomed in the absolute filth of trying to buy my medicine, trying to raise my money, trying to keep me breathing.

I did not even feel like I had the right to blame them.

A sudden, sharp metallic taste surged up the back of my throat.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself not to cough up blood right in front of them.

After we finished eating, Poppy stood up to clear the empty containers.

As she leaned over, her collar shifted, revealing a fresh, dark hickey right beneath her collarbone.

Wilson saw it. His expression shifted instantly.

He took a subconscious step toward her.

But he forcefully rooted himself to the spot.

I pretended to be deeply engrossed in my phone, staring blankly at the screen.

On the display was the hospice care DNR agreement I had signed digitally last night.

Once I stopped taking the medication.

My body would not last more than three days.

It felt like thousands of fire ants were chewing on my bones. I was constantly in so much pain that I had to curl myself into a tight, trembling ball.

When she finished cleaning, Poppy came over and sat beside me.

"Five."

"When you are feeling a little better, the three of us should go get a real portrait taken."

My mind drifted back to a memory from many years ago.

We had taken a picture together once.

Poppy insisted on standing dead center, declaring she was the older sister and needed to protect me and Wilson.

Wilson refused to accept it. He shamelessly squeezed himself right next to me.

Just before the shutter clicked, he secretly laced his fingers through mine behind my back.

When the photo was printed, I stared at it and smiled for days.

I thought I held the whole world in my hands.

Now, I looked at the two exhausted, hollowed-out faces in front of me and managed a weak smile.

"When I feel better, we will go."

Tears instantly spilled from Poppy's eyes.

She quickly ducked her head to wipe them away.

"It is a promise then."

I lowered my head and swallowed the last spoonful of cold soup.

Inside, my heart was completely quiet.

I am not going to get better.

And we are not going to take that photo.

Because very soon, I am going to disappear from their world entirely.

When that happens.

I will give them their freedom back.

And I will finally release myself from this humiliating, suffocating love.

That night, I woke up to the sound of fighting in the living room.

Poppy sounded like she was crying.

"Years ago, Five went to work at that chemical processing plant just to pay for our tuition!"

"She got pulmonary fibrosis because of us! We cannot betray her like this!"

A second later, I heard the rustling of clothes being roughly pulled.

Wilson's breathing grew heavy.

"I know we owe her a debt we can never repay. But can you look me in the eye and say you don't love me?"

"This has nothing to do with her. This is about us."

Poppy choked out a sob.

"I don't love you."

"Listen to me, Wilson, I don't love you!"

"I don't feel anything for... mm!"

The next second, all her desperate denials were swallowed up.

I lay frozen in the dark, my eyes wide open.

The ceiling blurred into a shadow above me.

I listened to them kissing in the living room.

I listened to Poppy crying, her hands weakly pushing against his chest.

And I listened as her struggles eventually faded into nothing.

In that exact moment, I finally understood.

Some betrayals do not start with the body.

They start with pity.

With one moment of weakness, one desperate urge to protect.

One uncontrollable gravitational pull toward someone who understands your pain.

Until slowly, you cross a line you can never come back from.

A violent wave of nausea suddenly turned my stomach inside out.

My chest constricted with a crushing, suffocating agony.

It felt like an invisible hand had reached inside my ribcage, twisting my lungs like a wet rag.

I tried to suppress it.

But this illness had ravaged my body for far too long.

A split second later, hot, coppery liquid erupted into my throat.

I panicked, reaching out wildly to grab the tissues on the nightstand, but my limbs went completely slack, and I crashed heavily onto the hard wooden floor.

The noises in the living room stopped dead.

Wilson and Poppy bolted into the bedroom at the exact same time.

Poppy's hair was a mess. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and the collar of her shirt was pulled down, hanging loosely off her shoulder.

When they saw me collapsed on the floor, all the blood drained from their faces.

"Five!"

Poppy lunged forward to hold me up.

The sweet scent of her nightclub perfume mixed with the stale, cheap tobacco clinging to Wilson's clothes.

It made the nausea violently churn in my stomach again.

Wilson dropped to his knees, trying to scoop me into his arms.

"Five, where does it hurt?"

"I am calling an ambulance. Let's go to the hospital."

I shook my head, using every last ounce of energy I had left to force out three words. "I'm fine. Sleep."

The next morning, Poppy's eyes were horribly swollen.

She carefully took my fragile hand into hers.

"Five."

"Let's go take that photo today."

"You promised me yesterday."

Hearing this, Wilson frowned deeply. "She coughed up blood last night. Do not drag her outside today."

Poppy's eyes immediately filled with fresh tears.

"I just want one good picture of the three of us."

"Just in case..."

Her voice cracked and died in her throat.

I forced a faint smile.

"Let's go then."

It would be the perfect photo to use for my funeral.

They both stared at me.

I pretended I could not see the crushing guilt swimming in their eyes.

Poppy picked the photography studio.

The photographer positioned us in front of a clean, neutral backdrop.

Wilson stood on my left, Poppy on my right.

But the photographer looked through the lens for a few seconds, then lowered the camera with a bright smile.

"Could the couple step a bit closer to each other?"

He was talking about Wilson and Poppy.

The oxygen instantly vanished from the room.

The fake smile on Poppy's face shattered.

Wilson instinctively denied it. "We are not together."

His denial came out fast.

Too fast.

And the moment the words left his mouth, his eyes did not dart to me.

They darted to Poppy.

As if he was terrified she would be hurt by his rejection.

Standing right between them, I smiled warmly and broke the silence.

"It is okay. The three of us are family."

When the word 'family' left my lips, Poppy's eyes instantly flooded with red.

Wilson went completely rigid.

But my smile was flawless. Natural.

As if I truly had not noticed the overflowing, desperate love they were trying to hide from me.

In the final printed photo, I stood directly in the center.

Wilson and Poppy flanked my sides.

But their shoulders were subconsciously angled inward, tilting toward each other.

I was the only one standing perfectly straight.

Looking exactly like someone who had finally learned how to bow out with grace.

I slipped the photo into my bag.

Right then, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

An email notification popped up from the Hospice Care Center.

"Miss Hazel, your application to terminate life-sustaining treatment has been confirmed."

Wilson leaned over, trying to see what I was looking at.

My thumb fumbled. I could not lock the screen fast enough.

But before his eyes could focus on the words, Poppy suddenly covered her mouth and let out a violent, wretched gag.

Wilson's attention snapped away from me instantly.

"Poppy?"

Poppy leaned against the studio wall, dry-heaving, her face the color of chalk.

I stared at her pale, sweaty forehead, and a sudden thought pierced through the fog in my brain.

She had not bought tampons in a very long time.

An absurd, terrifying realization began to float up from the darkest corner of my mind.

But before I could even process the thought, a catastrophic, tearing pain ripped through my chest.

I doubled over, vomiting a massive puddle of dark red blood onto the white studio floor.

Wilson whipped his head around. For a fraction of a second, absolute panic flashed in his eyes.

But Poppy let out another agonizing gag, her knees buckling as she collapsed weakly into his chest.

Wilson's hands froze in mid-air.

On one side, I was choking on my own blood, seconds away from passing out.

On the other side, Poppy was pale, trembling, and entirely possibly carrying his child.

Poppy gripped his shirt sleeve like a lifeline, sobbing hysterically.

"Wilson, take Five to the hospital right now!"

"Her lungs are failing!"

My consciousness was already fraying at the edges. A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears.

But I still saw Wilson squeeze his eyes shut, his face twisting in absolute mental collapse.

Suddenly, he opened his red-rimmed eyes and screamed at me.

"Haze, why won't you just fucking die?"

"If you were dead, we wouldn't have to be drowning in this misery anymore!"

"Poppy wouldn't have to suffer like this! Why won't you just die!"

Those words were a rusty knife, plunging repeatedly into my bleeding heart.

I opened my mouth to speak, but only more blood spilled out over my chin.

So this is it.

The person who loved me most in the world.

Was finally begging for me to die.

Poppy slapped her hand over his mouth, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Wilson, are you out of your mind?!"

"How could you say that to her?"

Wilson looked like he had just shocked himself.

He stared down at me, profound agony and terror rapidly pooling in his eyes.

But a second later, Poppy went completely limp against him.

Wilson finally made his choice. He bent down and scooped Poppy into his arms.

His voice was terrifyingly hoarse. It sounded like he was trying to justify it to me, but mostly trying to justify it to himself.

"Five. Just this once."

"I have to take care of Poppy first."

"Just this once."

I lay crumpled on the cold floor, the world around me melting into a dark blur.

All I could hear was the frantic sound of Wilson's footsteps running toward the exit.

Just before the darkness took me completely, I heard his trembling voice echo down the hall.

"Poppy, that night three months ago..."

"I gave you the cash. Didn't you go to the clinic for the pill?"

Poppy was crying so hard she could barely breathe.

"Five was so weak after her chemo that day."

"I took that clinic money... and I bought her two hot meatball subs."

The tears finally broke free and slid down my bloody cheeks.

So even this child.

Was my fault.

The agonizing pain in my organs crashed over me like a tidal wave, drowning me from the inside out.

I lay on the freezing tile, watching their blurry silhouettes disappear.

Suddenly, a thought echoed in my fading mind.

Haze.

Look at you.

You really are the root of every horrible thing that has ever happened to them.

I thrashed on the floor for a long time, waves of hot blood endlessly bubbling up my throat.

At first, I tried to cover my mouth.

Eventually, I did not even have the strength to lift my arm.

The blood ran down my chin, pooling onto the studio floor, slowly blooming into a dark, terrifying crimson stain.

The freshly printed photo slipped out of my pocket.

In the picture, all three of us were smiling.

But looking closely through my half-closed eyes, I could see Wilson and Poppy's hands, secretly locked together behind my back.

Just like how Wilson had locked his fingers with mine, all those years ago.

I coughed up another mouthful of blood.

This time, my breathing became incredibly shallow.

So faint, it felt like the very next breath would simply refuse to come.

The most beautiful memories of my life began to flash behind my eyelids.

Back when we were stuck in the foster home, the summer nights were so brutally hot we couldn't sleep.

Poppy would sit next to my bed, fanning me with a piece of stiff cardboard.

She would fan me and scold me at the same time.

"Five, why are you always so damn fragile?"

"When your big sister gets rich, I'm going to buy you ten air conditioners."

Wilson would sit by the open window, practicing.

He didn't have a piano, so he drew black and white keys on a long strip of paper.

His fingertips struck the paper silently, over and over again.

He said, "When I finally make it to the biggest concert hall in the city..."

"The dead-center seat in the front row belongs to Five."

Poppy immediately kicked his shin.

"What about me?"

Wilson kept a straight face and replied, "You can stand by the door and tear the tickets."

We laughed until our stomachs hurt.

Back then, I really believed it.

I believed the bitter days would eventually end.

And I believed the three of us would never, ever be torn apart.

But later, to scrape together the tuition money to send them to college, I took that night-shift job at the toxic demolition site.

The hazard pay was massive. Enough to cover both their tuitions in cash.

I was so happy. Because ever since we were kids, Wilson and Poppy were always so much brighter, so much smarter than me.

I willingly became the stepping stone. I hoisted them up toward a better life.

And then, one medical report shattered every beautiful dream we had.

They dropped out of college. They started working themselves into the ground.

Love and ambition were aggressively ground into dust by an endless mountain of hospital bills.

Suddenly, my body felt weightless.

So light, as if all the agonizing pain, the IV needles, the crushing guilt of the last seven years...

Had finally detached from my soul.

My life was actually very short.

Too short to ever put on a wedding dress.

Too short to see Wilson walk onto a grand stage.

Too short to see Poppy buy those ten air conditioners.

But it was also so incredibly long.

Long enough that the torture after every chemo session felt like walking through hell with no exit.

Long enough to watch the two people who loved me most drag themselves into the gutter just to keep me breathing.

They used to be so good.

They really were good people.

It was just that fate was too cruel.

It squeezed us until we morphed into monsters we didn't even recognize.

I remembered the day the three of us went to get our legal IDs.

I was supposed to be named Hazel, but the social worker messed up the paperwork and wrote Haze.

Poppy was furious. She almost threw a chair at the worker, screaming that 'Haze' sounded like fading away, like disappearing into nothing.

Wilson just smiled, gently rubbing the top of my head. "Then I'll be the wind," he said. "I'll always be there to clear the sky for our little Haze."

What a sick joke fate played. He couldn't clear the sky for me, and he ultimately lost himself in the dark, too.

Looking back on it now, my life really was just like a patch of fog.

Nobody asked for it to be there, and everyone was just waiting for it to finally dissipate.

How fitting.

As the very last drop of energy left my broken body, I closed my eyes for a long, long time.

...

Wilson carried Poppy all the way back to their cramped apartment.

The second he kicked the door shut, Poppy finally broke down and sobbed loudly.

"Tomorrow morning, I am going to the clinic. I'm getting rid of it."

"From now on, we dedicate everything to Five. We can never, ever cross that line again..."

Wilson's eyes were bloodshot. It looked like he couldn't physically handle hearing another word.

He violently yanked her by the waist and crashed his lips onto hers.

He shoved every apology, every ounce of self-hatred, right back down her throat.

Tears were still streaming down Poppy's cheeks.

But the hands she used to push against his chest slowly, inevitably, wrapped around his neck.

The heavy, tangled sounds of their breathing entirely drowned out the quiet buzz of a cell phone on the table.

Neither of them saw the text message lighting up the screen.

"Are you the registered family member of Haze?"

"Please come to City General Hospital immediately to sign the remains release forms."