The Shroud Under My Veil

We were playing a round of Undercover at the party. It was a simple word-association bluffing game. Everyone in the circle drew a slip with the secret civilian word—"wedding dress"—except for me. On my folded slip of paper, in stark black ink, was written: "burial shroud". When it was my turn to describe my card, I kept my voice light, offering a gentle smile. "I'll be wearing it soon," I said. "And you only ever wear it once in a lifetime." Sitting beside me, my fiancé, Keith, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. It made sense; our wedding was barely four weeks away. Before anyone else could piece together their clues, Keith’s lifelong best friend, Mallory, let out a throaty laugh from across the coffee table. "Well, I guess that makes me the odd one out," she chimed in, swirling the ice in her highball glass. "I already wore mine last month." A brief flicker of confusion crossed my mind. Why on earth would Mallory have worn a burial shroud last month? Before I could say anything, Keith reached over, covering my fingers with his warm, calloused palm. "Celia," he murmured, his voice dipping low so only our side of the room could hear. "Mallory and I... we took a set of wedding portraits last month." I froze. "It was an old childhood pact," he explained quickly, squeezing my hand as if trying to press the tension out of the air. "We promised back in middle school that before either of us actually walked down the aisle, we’d do a mock shoot together. Just to close the chapter on our childhood dream. I swear, Celia, once we’re married, I’m entirely yours. I'll spend the rest of our lives making you happy." If this had happened a month ago, or even yesterday, I would have pulled my hand back. I would have demanded an explanation, tears stinging my eyes, shouting until my voice cracked. Instead, I looked at him and simply smiled. "Okay," I said. Three hours earlier, an oncologist in a white coat had placed a manila folder between us. Stage four gastric cancer. Extensive metastasis. He had given me roughly thirty days. The "rest of our lives" Keith kept promising so easily—I didn't have one left. … The party rolled on, but the air in the living room had thinned out. The chatter felt brittle, and every pair of eyes kept drifting back to me. Mallory seemed to sense that her little confession hadn't landed as breezily as she’d hoped. She touched the bridge of her nose, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Celia, please don’t overthink it," she said, leaning forward on the sofa. "It was just dress-up. Keith and I grew up in diapers together. Honestly, he’s basically one of my girlfriends." One of Keith’s college buddies jumped in to smooth the edges. "Yeah, totally. Just a fun shoot. Celia’s not the type to get petty over a couple of photos, right?" I stayed quiet, watching the condensation bead on the rim of my glass. Surprisingly, it was Keith who scowled first. "Back off, you guys. Don't corner her." For half a second, a foolish part of me wondered if he had finally realized how cruel this was. Then he spoke again. "Springing it on her tonight was bad timing," Keith said reasonably, casting a placating look around the room. "Give her a minute to process it." He gave my knuckles an affectionate, soothing rub. "I’ll explain everything when we get home, sweetheart." That soft, measured cadence used to be my undoing. Whenever we argued, the second his voice dropped into that tender register, I would immediately convince myself that I was being irrational, insecure, and demanding. Tonight, though, nothing stirred inside my chest. Just a hollow, leaden fatigue. I held out an open palm toward Mallory. "Do you have the photos?" Keith went rigid beside me. Mallory, on the other hand, lit up. "Sure! Here, let me pull them up." She unlocked her phone and slid onto the sofa cushion next to me. She swiped through the album with practiced ease. The beach at dusk. An open sunlit meadow. A historic stone chapel. A rooftop under city lights. Four distinct wardrobe changes. Mallory wore a white, mermaid-cut gown of layered silk. Keith wore a tailored black tuxedo. In one frame, his arms were wrapped snugly around her waist from behind, his chin resting against the crown of her head. In another, she stood on tiptoe, laughing as she straightened his black bowtie. And then there was one that made the room fade away: the two of them under a translucent veil, their foreheads pressed together, eyes closed in an intimate, breathless reverie. They looked like soulmates on the threshold of a lifetime together. My finger brushed against the glass, slowing the scroll. I stopped on the close-up of the veil. Keith’s expression shifted, the color slowly draining from his cheeks. I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "That looks familiar." It was mine. Three months ago, Keith had taken me to a boutique downtown to look at bridal wear. The moment I saw that cathedral veil—hand-embroidered with delicate seed pearls along the raw edge—I had fallen in love with it. But the price tag had made my chest tighten. I’d stared at it for an hour before finally putting it back on the rack. A week later, Keith had secretly purchased it, hiding it away so he could present it to me on our wedding morning as a surprise. I’d stumbled across the credit card statement a few days afterward. I was so touched, so dizzy with happiness, that I hadn't slept a wink that night. I had truly believed that veil belonged only to me. Mallory glanced down at the screen, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, that? Keith said it was just sitting around in its box collecting dust. My stylist’s veil tore right before our third setup, so he grabbed yours from the closet. You don’t mind, do you?" I didn't look at her. I turned my head slowly to Keith. He held my gaze for a few seconds before looking down at his lap, murmuring an apology. "The rental veils at the studio looked cheap, Celia. I just lent it to her for an hour. It’s not like she damaged it. You’ll still wear it down the aisle. It won't change anything." A sharp, clawing cramp tore through my upper abdomen. A vicious, sickening heat. Quietly, under the hem of the oversized sweater I had worn to hide my weight loss, I pressed my fist against my stomach. I gave a faint nod. "Right. It looked lovely on her." Keith blinked, visibly disoriented. He had clearly braced himself for tears, for an interrogation, for a slammed door. My quiet acquiescence seemed to unnerve him far more than anger ever could. "You're... you're really not upset?" he pressed, his brow furrowing. "No," I replied, keeping my lips curved in that easy, distant smile. "She wore it well." Mallory beamed, throwing an arm around my neck in an exuberant side-hug. "See! I told you Celia was the best. Honestly, those jealous girls online who say men and women can't be best friends just have dirty minds." A wave of her perfume washed over me—white amber and jasmine. It was the exact trace of fragrance that had lingered on Keith's wool overcoats over the past six months. Whenever I’d asked about it, he’d laughed it off, saying Mallory drenched herself in the stuff whenever they met up for tennis or dinner, and that it rubbed off on everything. I had believed him without a second thought. The pain in my gut spiked violently, cold sweat breaking across my hairline. I carefully reached up and unhooked Mallory’s arm from my shoulders. "Excuse me. I need the restroom." The moment the bathroom door clicked shut and locked, my knees buckled. I gripped the cold porcelain edges of the sink, my throat convulsing. A mouthful of dark, coppery blood spilled into the white basin. Brilliant red. Jarring. Unforgiving. I twisted the faucet, watching the stream dilute the crimson until it swirled down the drain. In the vanity mirror, the woman looking back had hollowed cheekbones and skin the color of wet parchment. My phone buzzed against the countertop. A text from St. Jude’s Medical Center: "Ms. Adams, please report to the oncology wing as soon as possible to finalize your inpatient admission. We strongly advise that an immediate family member accompany you." I stared at the phrase "immediate family member" until the letters blurred. Then I clicked the screen off. When I stepped back into the living room, Mallory was slurring her words, clutching an empty wine bottle and leaning her full weight against Keith’s chest. "Keith..." she whined, her mascara smudged. "I can't do this. Drew won't answer my calls. He completely blocked me." Keith caught her with practiced ease. With one arm hooked around her waist to steady her, he scooped up her designer purse from the floor with the other, then glanced over his shoulder at me. "She's completely smashed," he sighed, looking apologetic. "I need to drive her back." I nodded calmly. "Go ahead." He took two strides toward the hallway, then paused, looking back. "What about you? Can you get home all right on your own?" I looked at him—the broad shoulders, the clean jawline, the man I had built an entire world around for seven years. My mind slipped back to the consultation room that afternoon, when the doctor had leaned forward and asked, "Is your family here with you today?" And I had answered, "My fiancé is caught up at work." He truly was busy. Busy playing groom in another woman's fantasy, busy tucking another woman into his car. "I can," I said quietly. A wave of relief swept over Keith’s face. "Text me the second you walk through the door." I didn't answer. I turned, grabbed my coat, and walked out into the chilly autumn night. I didn't call a cab to take me home. I set the destination for the hospital. The admitting nurse looked up from behind the reception counter, her eyebrows drawing together when she saw me standing there alone under the fluorescent lights. "Still no family with you, Ms. Adams?" I pulled the admission agreement toward myself and uncapped the pen. "No family," I said evenly. "I’ll sign for myself." As the ballpoint touched the paper, another wave of nausea ripped through my abdomen. A month ago, I had sat at our dining table, humming softly as I practiced calligraphy on the thick, cream-colored cardstock of our wedding guest list. "Groom: Keith Dalton." "Bride: Celia Adams." Tonight, the blank form before me read: "Patient: Celia Adams." When my pen hovered over the box for "Emergency Contact", I lingered for a long time. In the end, I drew a single, clean line across the blank space and left it empty. ... The next morning, after completing the preliminary blood panels and signing the treatment consent forms, I slipped out of the ward. The attending physician urged me to stay in bed, warning me that my hemoglobin was dangerously low, but I told him I had errands that couldn't wait. The dead, after all, can't clean up their own wreckage. My first stop was the wedding planning agency downtown. The coordinator recognized me instantly, greeting me with an enthusiastic smile as she pulled out a thick binder of floral swatches and floor plans. "Celia! You're just in time," she said brightly. "We just finalized the altar installation. Keith mentioned how much you adore white garden roses, so we swapped out the standard hydrangeas for—" "Cancel it," I interrupted softly. She paused, the smile freezing on her lips. "I'm sorry?" "Cancel everything," I repeated, keeping my tone level and calm. "Whatever can be refunded, please process back to the original card. Whatever can't, keep the deposits. I’d like all the paperwork closed out by this afternoon." She stared at me, dumbfounded. "Is this... a postponement? Did an emergency come up?" I shook my head. "No. It's canceled. There isn't going to be a wedding." Her eyes darted nervously over my shoulder toward the empty lobby. "Does... does Keith know about this?" "It doesn't matter." I had thirty days left. The wedding had been set for thirty days from now. I had no idea which would arrive first—my death or my wedding day. And I had no interest in placing a bet. From the agency, I took an Uber to the bridal salon. My custom gown had just arrived from the atelier that morning. When the consultant wheeled it out from behind the velvet curtain, my chest tightened in spite of myself. It was breathtaking. The waist was delicately embroidered with sprigs of lily of the valley—my mother’s favorite flower—and the silk chiffon train was shot through with spun silver thread. Under the gallery spotlights, it shimmered like a scatter of fallen stars. What a pity. What an absolute pity. I remembered our final fitting two months ago. When the consultant had pulled back the curtain to reveal the pinned silhouette, Keith had stood there, his eyes welling with sudden, overwhelming tears. He had gripped my waist, his voice trembling: "Celia. You have to marry me. In this lifetime, there’s no one else. You have to be mine." I had laughed then, calling him melodramatic. How strange it was to realize how short a lifetime could turn out to be. "Ms. Adams?" the consultant prompted gently. I pulled myself back from the memory. "I won't be taking the dress. Can you put it on consignment?" She looked stunned. "We can, but custom sizing takes a heavy loss on resale. You might only get a fraction of the cost back." "That's fine," I said, handing the garment receipt across the counter. "Whatever you can get for it. Just take it off my hands." My final stop of the day was Oakridge Memorial Park. The sales director, a soft-spoken man in a dark grey suit, asked politely who the arrangement was for. "For me," I told him. He chuckled politely, assuming it was an eccentric joke, until I slid my clinical summary across his mahogany desk. The polite smile vanished from his face. Twenty minutes later, he walked me out to a quiet, elevated ridge overlooking the valley. The morning sunlight poured down in warm, honeyed sheets, filtering through the branches of a sweet osmanthus tree heavy with fragrant, golden blossoms. I liked it immediately. "Here," I told him. "This spot is fine." While I was swiping my credit card in the cemetery office, my phone rang. It was Keith. "Where are you?" he asked, background noise crackling over the line. "Out running errands." "Why haven't you been answering my texts?" "I forgot to check my phone." A brief, uneasy silence hung between us. When he spoke again, his tone was cautiously tender. "Are you still brooding over those pictures from last night?" I leaned against the glass counter, gazing out at the endless rows of pale granite headstones lining the green slope. "No." "Really? You're not mad?" "Really, Keith. I'm not." He let out a relieved, airy sigh. "I knew you wouldn't stay in a rut about it. God, Mallory was throwing up all night. I was up until nearly four wiping down her bathroom. I just crawled out of bed. Let me take you to dinner tonight, okay? Anywhere you want." "Don't worry about it," I said. "I have things to take care of." The line went still again. "Celia," he said, his frustration bubbling through the veneer. "How is that "not" being mad?" A small, dry laugh escaped me. It turns out that when you know your days are counted, the burning desire to argue simply evaporates. It takes too much energy to demand reassurance from someone who has already drifted out of reach. "Keith. I promise you, I'm truly not angry." My utter lack of heat seemed to rattle him more than a scream would have. "All right," he said slowly, clearly unsettled. "We'll talk when I get home tonight." I hung up. The cemetery representative handed me the final service agreement. "We need to finalize the headstone engraving in advance, ma'am. Did you have an epitaph in mind?" I thought about it for a second. "Just my name, my birth year, and my death year," I said. "Nothing else." He hesitated, his pen hovering. "Are you certain your family shouldn't weigh in on this?" "My parents died when I was in college," I told him quietly. "There isn't much family left." "And your fiancé?" I offered a small, tired smile. "He’s not my husband yet. No need to burden him with this." ... By mid-afternoon, I was back in the apartment we shared, cataloging my life. The notifications arrived one after another on my phone: the wedding planner’s partial refund, the consignment intake slip from the bridal boutique. I moved from room to room with an inventory notebook. My jewelry, my designer handbags, my vintage cameras. I listed the items that could be sold, and boxed up the sentimental pieces to ship to my older sister, Allison, who lived two states away. I logged into our joint bank account, transferred out my share of the savings, and closed the profile. I called the utility companies and settled our pending bills. I canceled our honeymoon flights to Greece. Then I updated my life insurance policy, removing Keith as the sole beneficiary and naming Allison instead. I sealed a handwritten letter to my sister inside an envelope, instructing her not to notify Keith when the time came. "Direct cremation," I wrote. "No church service. Keep it as quiet and simple as possible." When every drawer was organized, the only thing remaining on the nightstand was my engagement ring. I slid it off my finger. A faint, pale indentation marked the skin where the platinum band had rested for the past eighteen months. I looked at that white ring of skin for a long moment, then placed the diamond inside its velvet box and clicked the lid shut. At nine that evening, the front door unlocked. Keith walked in, carrying a white bakery box from the patisserie downtown. "Peace offering," he announced, holding up the box with a sheepish grin. "Your favorite chestnut cream tart." I blinked at him from the couch. He crossed the room, dropping onto the cushion beside me and wrapping his arms tightly around my shoulders, burying his nose in my hair. "I'm sorry about yesterday, Celia," he murmured against my neck. "It was thoughtless of me. I already texted Mallory and told her to bring the veil back tomorrow. And if those photos make you uncomfortable, I'll delete the files from my hard drive right now." He spoke with such genuine warmth, such earnest gentleness. For a split second, an ache rose in my throat, hot and sharp. If he had offered this tenderness weeks ago... if I hadn't received that fatal diagnosis... if we still had decades stretching out before us... I would have broken down in his arms. I would have let him delete the photos. I would have demanded that he establish firm, unbreakable boundaries with Mallory. And then I would have forgiven him, continuing to love him with everything I had. What a luxury "if" was. I gently placed my hands against his forearms and pushed him back. "Keep the photos," I said. "They're a nice memory." Keith looked baffled. "A memory of what?" I stood up, walking toward the kitchen to fetch a knife for the pastry. "A memory of how long you two have known each other." A slow smile returned to his face, his posture relaxing entirely. "God, Celia. You've gotten so mature lately. So understanding." My hand hovered over the ribbon on the bakery box. I smiled faintly into the empty air. Of course I had. When you're dying, what is left to be petty about? ... The third night after that was the first time I was rushed to the ER in an ambulance. Keith was working late at his firm, and I was home alone. It started as a dull, gnawing cramp behind my ribs. Within an hour, it felt as though someone were twisting broken glass through my stomach lining. Then the vomiting began. Dark, curdled blood coated my palms, splattering across the hardwood floor. I managed to dial 911 before sinking onto my side. The EMTs arrived with dizzying speed. As they lifted the gurney into the back of the rig, the paramedic shouted over the siren: "Is there any next of kin we can call?" That question again. I closed my eyes against the flashing red lights, and suddenly, an overwhelming wave of longing for Keith crested over me. It wasn't anger. It wasn't resentment. It was a raw, primal ache for the boy who had loved me from twenty-two to twenty-nine. For seven years, I had built my life under the assumption that his face would be the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes for good. My trembling fingers fished my phone from my coat pocket. I dialed his number. It rang four times. Five times. He finally picked up. "Celia?" His voice was muffled, strained. "What's going on?" I parted my dry lips, fighting for breath. Before I could form a word, a piercing, hysterical shriek tore through the receiver. "Keith! Don't let him leave! Drew blocked my number, Keith! Are you going to abandon me too?!" The sound of shattering ceramic echoed in the background. Keith’s breath hitched sharply. "Mallory! Put that down—don't touch the glass!" He muffled the receiver against his shirt for several frantic seconds before returning to the line, his words tumbling out in a hurried rush. "Celia, what did you need? Are you okay?" I looked up at the flickering fluorescent tube in the roof of the ambulance. "Where are you, Keith?" "I'm at Mallory's apartment," he admitted, breathless. "Drew broke things off for good tonight. She's completely unhinged, throwing things... I'm terrified she's going to hurt herself." He caught himself, adding hastily, "Don't get the wrong idea, please. The second she calms down, I'm heading straight back." My fingers tightened around the casing of the phone until my knuckles burned white. "Keith," I whispered. "What if I told you... I really need you right now?" The line went completely dead for two beats. Then, Mallory let out a wail that sounded like an animal caught in a trap. "Keith! You promised you'd never leave me behind!" Through the phone, I could hear Keith tearing at his own hair, completely fractured in two. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with exhaustion and pleading. "Celia... she literally cannot be left alone right now. You've always been stronger than her. You know how she gets. The second she falls asleep, I swear to God I'll be home." I closed my eyes. A quiet, profound stillness settled over my chest. Enough. It was finally, completely enough. "Okay," I whispered. "Stay with her." A heavy, shuddering exhale of relief slipped through the line. "Thank you, sweetheart. I knew you'd understand." The call clicked off. The paramedic gently took the phone from my limp hand and slid it into an envelope. "Ms. Adams," the nurse called out, wheeling the gurney through the double doors of trauma bay four. "We have internal bleeding. Prepare for transfusion." I watched the screen go completely black. I had been ready to tell him. I had even rehearsed the sentence in my mind as the sirens wailed: "Keith. I have cancer. I'm dying." In the end, I swallowed it whole. ... At 2:47 a.m., my vitals crashed, and the hospital issued a critical condition alert. It wasn't until dawn broke that the internal bleeding was cauterized and my blood pressure stabilized enough for me to sit upright. At eight in the morning, refusing a hospital bed I couldn't bear to lie in, I took a taxi back to our apartment. When I pushed the front door open, Keith was already there, slumped on the sofa in yesterday's clothes, his face grey with exhaustion. The moment he saw me, his forehead knit into a scowl. "Where the hell were you?" he demanded, looking me up and down. "Why do you look like a ghost?" "Couldn't sleep," I lied, slipping off my flats in the entryway. "Went for a long walk." A dark, rusted smear of dried blood clung to the cuff of my trousers near my ankle. He didn't notice it. On the coffee table sat a paper bag from the pharmacy—electrolyte packets and sedatives he’d picked up for Mallory. He stood up, walking over to place a warm hand against my forehead. "Why did you call me last night? What happened?" I met his bloodshot eyes. "I forgot." He let out an exasperated chuckle, shaking his head. "You've been so absentminded lately." I said nothing. Suddenly, he pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around my frame. "Celia," he whispered, his chin resting against my temple. "Thank you. Truly. Mallory was in a really dark place last night. If you’d made a scene, I don't know what I would have done. Thank you for being so good to me." My body remained rigid for a beat before slowly, mechanically going slack in his embrace. "You're welcome," I murmured. "I won't ever make a scene again." He smiled, pressing a soft kiss into the part of my hair. "That’s my girl." A stinging pressure built behind my eyelids, but I forced it back down. When a person has already decided to walk out of your life for good, crying in their arms feels entirely redundant. ... Over the next seven days, I methodically erased myself from Keith Dalton’s world. I closed down the credit cards we shared. I transferred the apartment lease entirely into his name. I mailed my sister the final execution documents for my estate. When I returned to the apartment on Friday afternoon, Mallory was standing in the center of our living room. She was wearing my custom wedding gown. For three seconds, my vision went white. I stood in the doorway, frozen in place. Mallory caught sight of me in the entryway mirror and turned, gathering the voluminous, starlit train in both hands with an easy, radiant twirl. "Celia!" she beamed. "How does it look?" I couldn't find my voice. Keith stepped out of our bedroom, carrying a garment bag. When his eyes caught mine, a flush of awkwardness crept up his neck. "You're back early," he said, clearing his throat. I looked at him, my voice flat and hollow. "That's my gown." Mallory rushed to explain, fluttering her hands. "Well, you didn't want it anymore, right? The boutique manager called Keith yesterday when they couldn't get ahold of you, saying you’d put it on the consignment rack. I happen to have a bridal-themed editorial shoot for my lifestyle blog next week, so Keith picked it up so I could try it for size." The boutique had lost my cell reception and dialed my emergency backup contact. Keith had found out that I had canceled the wedding orders. He had found out that I had put the custom dress up for sale. And yet, his first instinct had not been to ask me why. His first instinct had been to load my dream gown into his trunk so his childhood friend could play dress-up in my living room. Keith walked over, stopping a foot in front of me, his voice tightening with suppressed irritation. "Celia. What is this ridiculous game you've been playing all week?" A quiet, bitter laugh rose in my chest. "I'm not playing games." "Then why did you cancel the catering? Why did you pull the deposit on the venue?" "I changed my mind. I don't want a wedding." His jaw clenched. "All this over a few stupid photos?" "No." "Then what, Celia? What is your problem?!" I looked into his eyes—the eyes of the man who had promised to love me until our hair turned grey. The confession rose to the tip of my tongue: "My problem is that I won't survive until our wedding day." The words burned in my throat. And then I looked at the way he was standing, angled protectively between me and Mallory, and the urge died entirely. Mallory stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Keith's bicep. "Keith, stop. Don't yell at her." The moment her fingers touched his arm, the harsh edge in Keith's shoulders visibly softened. A profound, sickening exhaustion washed through me. "Keep the dress," I told her. Both of them stared at me, frozen. "You like it, don't you?" I said, looking Mallory dead in the eye. "It's yours. Take it." Keith’s brows drew together, his gaze searching my face with deep unease. "Celia, stop talking like this. Don't be spiteful." "I'm not being spiteful." I had already settled the bill for my burial shroud. I really had no use for a wedding gown. ... Three days later, Mallory announced that she wanted Keith to drive her to North Bay to watch the sunrise. They had grown up spending their summers at a lakeside cabin there. On the night of their eighteenth birthdays, sitting on a dock under the stars, they had made a pact: whoever was the first to get married, the other would accompany them to North Bay on the eve of the wedding. A symbolic farewell to their youth. The date Mallory chose was the day before our scheduled ceremony. For the first time in his life, Keith refused her. "I can't, Mal," he said firmly in our kitchen. "Celia hasn't been herself lately. I need to be here with her the day before our wedding." Mallory’s eyes rimmed with red right in front of us, her lower lip trembling. "Just this one last time, Keith," she choked out, a tear spilling over her lashes. "Once you're a married man, I swear I'll keep my distance. We've been best friends for twenty years. Are you really telling me our final promise doesn't mean a damn thing?" Keith stood paralyzed in the center of the kitchen, looking as if he were being torn in half. I sat at the breakfast bar, uncapping my prescription bottle. The high-dose morphine pill caught in my dry throat, releasing an acrid, chemical bitterness before I washed it down with a glass of tap water. "Go," I said. Keith whipped his head toward me, shock widening his eyes. "What did you say?" "Go with her to North Bay," I said evenly. "Don't leave yourself with any regrets." He stared at me as if I were a stranger speaking an alien dialect. "Celia... what is wrong with you?" I gave him a faint, gentle smile. "Nothing. I just realized... life is shockingly short. If there's something you want to do, you should do it before it's too late." Mallory let out a wet, triumphant laugh, while Keith remained rooted to the spot, unsmiling, a shadow of dread passing over his face. That night, Keith pulled me into his arms in bed. Around two in the morning, his voice emerged from the dark, quiet and tentative: "Celia... do you still love me?" I lay with my back pressed against his chest, staring out the window at the distant streetlamps. For a long time, the bedroom remained silent. Finally, I offered a soft, barely audible whisper: "Yeah." I still loved him. That was why every breath hurt so much. If I had truly stopped loving him, this would have been easy. ... The following afternoon, I packed his overnight duffle bag. "Your driver's license is in the outer pocket," I told him at the front door. "Phone charger is packed. Drive safely." Keith stood on the welcome mat, his hand hovering on the brass doorknob, hesitating. Suddenly, he dropped his bag and pulled me into an embrace so fierce it knocked the breath from my bruised lungs. "Wait for me," he whispered desperately into my ear. "The second the ceremony starts tomorrow, all this mess—all the childhood nonsense—it's over. I'm going to love you with everything I have. I swear it." I rested my cheek against his shoulder and closed my eyes. "Okay," I whispered. What a shame. I wouldn't be able to wait that long. Ten minutes after his car pulled away from the curb, I called the funeral home. I scheduled my memorial service for ten o'clock the following morning. Our wedding reception had been booked for ten-eighteen. What an immaculate coincidence. One celebration of union. One ceremony of departure. I printed the final confirmation slips from the crematory and slipped them, along with my full oncology medical records, into a sleek black folder on my writing desk. At nine that evening, the electronic deadbolt chimed. My heart seized. The door swung open, and Keith stepped inside, windblown and flushed. "Grabbed the wrong wallet," he called out, shucking his shoes in a hurry. "I accidentally took your ID card instead of mine..." His voice cut off abruptly. By the time I rushed into the bedroom, he was standing frozen in front of my desk. In his hands, he held the black folder. The topmost document had slid halfway out, the bold black typography catching the overhead light: "Direct Cremation and Memorial Service Authorization" "Deceased Name: Celia Adams."