Chapter 8
Willow
Two years ago
Every Saturday, no matter the weather, we went to the beach.
It was our thing. Our constant.
I’d spend the morning at my dance class, helping teach the little ones—tiny bodies full of energy, limbs flailing with joy more than technique. I loved it. Their laughter, their unfiltered happiness. It filled something in me, reminded me why I fell in love with dance in the first place.
Dad always said music lived in my bones.
Even before I could talk properly, my body moved when a song came on, like it knew what to do before I did.
The second I was old enough, he signed me up for classes.
Worked longer hours to pay for them. Showed up to every recital, every showcase—front row, clapping the loudest, eyes shining like I was performing on some grand stage instead of a drafty hall.
He never missed a show.
Never missed anything.
Now it's late, the sun is sinking low and setting the sky on fire—deep oranges bleeding into soft pinks. We’re sitting on our battered dark-green blanket, hot chocolates warming our hands, another blanket pulled over our legs as the chill creeps in.
The sea rolls gently in front of us, waves brushing the shore in a steady rhythm that always calms me. The wind tugs at my hair.
I smile and look at him.
Dirty blonde hair that desperately needs a cut, touches of grey just starting to creep in at the temples. Stubble, he insists, “women love,” even though he hasn't been on a real date in years. A faint scar on his cheek from a fall he had at work last year.
He looks the same, but something feels off.
His shoulders are tense. His fingers keep tapping against his forearm. He hasn't really spoken—not like he usually does. It's too quiet. The silence is deafening, and the air feels off.
I tuck my hair behind my ear as the wind keeps blowing it into my eyes. That's when he finally clears his throat.
“You know I love you, right?”
There's never been a moment in my life when I've ever doubted that.
He raised me alone. I remember he would stay up all night whenever I was sick.
Slept in the hospital chair when I had my tonsils out, refusing to leave my side even though we both knew how comfortable the chairs were.
When a boy once broke my heart, Dad filled his brand-new car with rainbow glitter.
They didn't even check before getting in, and they sparkled for days, and his parents were given a hefty bill to fix it.
I tried to be mad at the time, but it was hilarious and totally deserved.
“Of course I know,” I responded, nudging his arm and crossing my legs. “Why are you asking stupid questions?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“There's something I need to tell you.”
My stomach tightens.
“You finally got a girlfriend?” I tease weakly.
He lets out a rough laugh. “Definitely not. Told you before, you're the only girl in my life. The rest aren't worth the headache.”
When I was younger, I hated the idea of anyone else joining our little family.
Now… I wish he would. Since Mum, he's never really tried. I’m not naive—I know he's had the occasional meaningless flings, ones he thinks I don't notice.
As if I wouldn't clock unfamiliar perfume or lace thongs in the bin.
So obvious and very disturbing.
“Okay. You're worrying me now.”
He reaches for my hand, the sky darkening above us as I grip his back instinctively. “I… Willow. I don't even know how to say this.”
The cold bites at my skin, but it's nothing compared to the nerves.
“I had some tests done.”
Well, that's news to me.
“What kind of tests?”
He shifts closer. “Scans. I've been having headaches. Forgetting things. Thought it was better to get it checked.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” My brows knit together.
“I didn't want to worry you.”
We have always told each other everything. I even told him when I had sex for the first time, which wasn't a pleasant conversation, and the memory causes a full-body shudder. I don't know who was more uncomfortable with that conversation, me or him.
“What did the doctors say?”
Sadness settles over his face, heavy and unmistakable. He takes the hot chocolate to place on the blanket so he can take my other hand, forcing me to look at him. I feel this weight in my stomach, and I know whatever he says next is going to destroy me, and we will never be the same again.
“I've been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer.”
The world stops. The air is ripped from my lungs, like I've been pulled underwater. My grip slackens, but he doesn't let go—not for a second.
“You’re wrong,” I choke. “They’re wrong. The doctors have to be wrong—”
“I really wish they were.”
My heart shatters. The wind picks up, the waves crashing harder against the rocks, mirroring the way I feel.
“No. No, I don't believe it. You're fine. You're healthy. You're you.” My lip trembles. “You can't—this isn't—no. No, no, no.”
I wrench away and stand, my body shaking. He's up instantly, blankets forgotten, hot chocolate spilling uselessly onto the floor.
“Willow, look at me.”
I shake my head, tears blurring everything as I scrub my face. I want to scream at the sky. Curse God, even if he doesn't exist.
Dad cups my face gently, forcing my eyes to meet his as I break apart.
“Breathe for me,” he says softly. “Okay? Deep breaths. Slow. One… two… three.”
I clutch at my chest, dragging air into my lungs that refuse to cooperate.
“That’s it.” he wipes my tears away. “You’re doing so well.”
I can't believe I’m having a panic attack when I’m not the one who is dying; he is.
“They have to be wrong,” I sob.
He pushes my hair back, forehead resting against mine. “I wish they were. But there's nothing they can do.”
My voice breaks completely. “What am I supposed to do without you?”
“Live,” he replies, like it's so simple. “Live a beautiful life like I've always wanted you to. Dance. Laugh. Maybe fall in love—though no man will ever be good enough for you.”
Another broken sob escapes me, and somehow he laughs through his own.
“You'll make mistakes,” he continues gently. “Everyone does. But you'll never be alone. And I’m not gone yet, sweets. I’m sticking around as long as I can—just so you can keep trying to annoy me.”
I cover my face, collapsing into him. The thought of a world without him feels unbearable.
Nobody deserves this. Especially him.
He held me for a long time. Long enough that the last smear of sunset disappears completely, replaced by a sky scattered with stars so bright they almost hurt to look at. The moon hangs low, painting the water silver as the tide breathes in and out.
I curl into him like I always have, my cheek pressed to his chest, memorising the sound of his heartbeat. It's comforting. I cling to it as if I can somehow stitch it into my mind, afraid that if I don't remember it perfectly, I’ll lose it forever.
The world keeps moving around us—waves breaking, wind tugging at the blanket, the distant call of seagulls—but everything else feels suspended. It's just us. Like it's always been.
My fingers twist into his jacket, knuckles aching from how tightly I’m holding on. I don't want to let go. I don't want to keep going. Because I already know, deep in my soul, that one day—sooner than I’m ready for—this sound beneath my ear will stop.
When it does, I’m terrified mine might follow it.
So I stay there. Breathing him in. Counting his heartbeats. Letting the stars burn into my memory. Loving him so fiercely it hurts, because loving him has always been the easiest thing I've ever done—and losing him will be the hardest.