Chapter 1 - The reply was only six words.
Are you alone right now?
I stared at the screen.
It wasn't what I had expected.
I'd imagined a polite I'm sorry, or perhaps no answer at all. Instead, the stranger on the other end sounded less shocked by the fact that I was dying than concerned by the fact that I was by myself.
I typed back.
Yes.
The dots appeared immediately.
Do you want to be?
That question was harder.
I looked around my apartment.
The lamp beside the sofa was still on from that morning. A mug sat in the sink. The mail I'd ignored for three days had formed a small leaning tower on the counter.
Everything looked exactly as it had yesterday.
That seemed offensive somehow.
How could a doctor tell me my life had narrowed to seven days while my laundry still waited to be folded?
I lowered myself onto the sofa.
I don't know.
A minute passed.
Then:
That's a reasonable answer.
I almost laughed.
It was such a strange thing to say.
Not be brave.
Not everything happens for a reason.
Not stay positive.
Just that my confusion was reasonable.
I typed:
Who is this?
Across the city, Lucian Moretti read the question and leaned back in his chair.
He could have lied.
According to the people who worked for him, Lucian was very good at deciding how much truth another person needed.
But something about the woman's message had stripped that instinct away.
He typed:
Lucian.
I frowned.
Do I know you?
His answer came more slowly.
I don't think so.
That should have ended the conversation.
Instead, I wrote:
Then why are you answering me?
He stared at the question for a long time.
Finally:
Because you sounded like someone who shouldn't be left alone with that news.
My eyes blurred.
I put the phone down.
Five minutes later, I picked it up again.
I don't want anyone I know to look at me like I'm already gone.
The reply came almost immediately.
Then don't tell me anything you don't want to.
I read that sentence three times.
Maybe it was easier because he was a stranger.
He had no version of me to mourn.
He didn't remember me before chemotherapy, before weakness, before my hair grew back different, before I learned which hospital elevators were least crowded.
To Lucian, I wasn't someone disappearing.
I was simply a woman typing messages.
So I told him something I hadn't told anyone.
I'm scared I wasted my life waiting to feel better.
His answer took longer this time.
What did you keep waiting to do?
I looked toward the painting by the window.
Finish one painting. Go somewhere warm. Eat at an expensive restaurant without checking the prices first. See the ocean at sunrise. Buy ridiculous flowers. Call my sister even though we haven't spoken in two years.
I hesitated.
Then added:
Fall in love, maybe.
I regretted that immediately.
Too intimate.
Too pathetic.
But Lucian didn't make a joke.
He wrote:
That's a lot for seven days.
I stared.
Then another message appeared.
Which one matters most?
I looked toward the unfinished painting again.
And for the first time since leaving the hospital, the panic inside me became quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.
My sister.
I didn't call Evelyn that night.
I opened her contact three times.
Closed it three times.
Instead, Lucian and I kept texting.
He never asked what illness I had.
That surprised me.
People usually wanted the diagnosis first, as though knowing the name of something frightening made it manageable.
Lucian asked different questions.
What color was the unfinished painting?
What kind of flowers were ridiculous?
Why hadn't I spoken to my sister?
That last one took an hour to answer.
She wanted me to move in with her when I got sick again. I refused. We fought. She said I was pushing everyone away. I told her she only wanted to help because she felt guilty.
A pause.
Was that true?
I hated him slightly for asking.
Probably not.
Then why did you say it?
I rested my head against the sofa cushion.
Because I was tired of needing people.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Needing someone and belonging to them aren't the same thing.
I sat up.
The sentence landed strangely.
I didn't know enough about Lucian to understand why.
That sounds personal.
He didn't answer for several minutes.
Then:
It is.
At 1:17 A.M., I finally asked:
Why was your number in my phone?
His response came quickly.
I was going to ask you the same thing.
I searched old messages.
Nothing.
No conversation.
No call history.
The contact was simply a number, saved three years earlier.
Maybe someone gave it to me by mistake.
He wrote:
Possible.
But something about the short answer made me think he didn't believe it.
At 2:03, my eyes began closing.
I'm going to sleep.
His response:
Good.
Then:
Amelia?
I froze.
I hadn't told him my name.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
How do you know my name?
There was no immediate answer.
My heartbeat changed.
I sat up fully.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
His number.
I let it ring four times before answering.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
Low.
Controlled.
“Don't hang up.”
“Why do you know my name?”
“Because I looked up the number.”
My anger arrived faster than fear.
“You investigated me?”
“I verified who was sending messages to a private number very few people have.”
“That is not better.”
“No.”
At least he didn't pretend.
I stood and began pacing.
“What exactly did you find?”
“Your name. Address. Public records.”
“My address?”
“Yes.”
“You understand how creepy that sounds?”
“I do.”
“And you're saying it calmly.”
“I don't think panic improves the sentence.”
Against my will, I laughed.
It came out sharp and tired.
He continued.
“I should have told you before using your name.”
“Yes.”
“I apologize.”
That surprised me more than the investigation.
“People like you apologize?”
A pause.
“What do you think people like me are?”
“I don't know. You haven't told me anything.”
“Maybe that's safer.”
The way he said it changed the temperature of the conversation.
I looked toward the dark window.
“Who are you, Lucian?”
He was quiet long enough for me to feel the answer before hearing it.
“Someone you wouldn't normally text at midnight.”
“That clears everything up.”
“I own Moretti Holdings.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in New York knew the name.
Luxury buildings.
Freight companies.
Private security.
Hotels.
And rumors.
Enough rumors that when I heard the surname, I stopped walking.
“Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“Lucian Moretti?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“Oh.”
“That is a common response.”
“You're—”
“Careful.”
I swallowed.
“You're not exactly known for charity work.”
“My mother would disagree.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Silence.
Then I asked, “Why are you still talking to me?”
“I told you.”
“Because I shouldn't be alone?”
“Yes.”
“That can't be the whole reason.”
His voice softened slightly.
“No.”
I waited.
He didn't continue.
“Then what is?”
Another pause.
“Because six years ago my younger brother called me at two in the morning.”
Something in his voice changed.
“He was in a hospital in Albany. He'd been diagnosed with leukemia two weeks earlier.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened?”
“I didn't answer.”
I said nothing.
“I was in a meeting. I saw his name. Decided I'd call back.”
His breathing was almost inaudible.
“He died the following afternoon from a complication no one expected.”
My anger disappeared.
“I'm sorry.”
“So when a dying stranger sent a message to my private number, I answered.”
There it was.
Not kindness exactly.
Memory.
Regret.
Maybe those became kindness sometimes.
“Was his number mine?”
“No.”
“Then how did I get yours?”
“I intend to find out.”
That sounded like a threat aimed at the universe.
I smiled faintly.
“You really hate unanswered questions, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“What about questions that don't have answers?”
“I hate those more.”
At three in the morning, after we had said goodnight twice, he asked one final thing.
“Do you have food?”
I looked at the half-empty refrigerator.
“Yes.”
It wasn't exactly a lie.
There was yogurt.
Mustard.
Two eggs.
“I'll accept that answer tonight.”
“You're bossy.”
“So I've been told.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Goodnight, Lucian.”
“Goodnight, Amelia.”
For the first time all day, I slept.
Day Six began with someone knocking at my door.
I opened it wearing pajama pants and one sock.
A delivery man stood outside holding an arrangement of flowers so enormous he was barely visible.
“No.”
He looked confused.
“Amelia Carter?”
“Yes.”
“These are for you.”
“I know who they're from.”
I did not, technically.
But I knew.
The arrangement contained peonies, garden roses, ranunculus, eucalyptus, and several things I couldn't identify.
Ridiculous flowers.
Exactly as I'd described them.
There was no card.
Just a small envelope containing a receipt.
I called Lucian.
He answered immediately.
“This is cheating.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You sent flowers.”
“You said you wanted ridiculous flowers.”
“They're larger than my dining table.”
“Then they're sufficiently ridiculous.”
“How much did they cost?”
“That's an impolite question.”
“Lucian.”
“Don't check.”
“I'm checking.”
“Amelia.”
I opened the florist's website.
He sighed.
“You're impossible.”
“Seven days left. I can be difficult.”
The sentence silenced both of us.
I regretted it.
He recovered first.
“What are you doing today?”
I looked at the flowers.
“Calling my sister.”
“Good.”
“You sound annoyingly confident.”
“I am not confident.”
“No?”
“No.”
His voice was softer.
“I just think you should do the thing you said mattered most.”
Evelyn answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
I nearly hung up.
Instead, I whispered, “Evie.”
Silence.
Then a sharp inhale.
“Amelia?”
My eyes filled instantly.
“I need to tell you something.”
She cried before I finished.
Not dramatically.
Not in a way that made my illness about her.
Just one broken sound through the phone.
Then she said, “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
“Amelia.”
“I don't want you getting on a plane without listening.”
She lived in Boston.
Two years ago, I'd told her she wasn't allowed to rearrange her life around me.
Apparently she had remembered.
“I have seven days,” I said.
Another silence.
Then Evelyn said, “Then I'm not wasting one of them arguing.”
She arrived six hours later.
When I opened the door, we stared at each other.
She had cut her hair shorter.
I had lost weight.
Two years passed between us in a single glance.
Then she hugged me.
I expected guilt.
Or anger.
Instead, she whispered into my hair, “You idiot.”
I laughed while crying.
“You too.”
We sat on the floor beside the enormous flowers because neither of us had the energy to move them.
For three hours, we talked.
Not about dying at first.
About Mom.
About Evelyn's divorce.
About the job she'd left.
About my paintings.
About stupid memories.
Then she asked, “Why didn't you call sooner?”
I gave her the truthful answer.
“Because if you came back, I'd have to admit I wanted you.”
She squeezed my hand.
“You always make wanting people sound like failure.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I thought of Lucian.
Needing someone and belonging to them aren't the same thing.
“I don't know.”
That evening, Evelyn fell asleep on my sofa.
I went into my bedroom and texted Lucian.
I called her.
His reply came immediately.
How did it go?
She called me an idiot.
Sounds affectionate.
Very.
I smiled.
Then another message came.
I'm glad you did it.
I looked at the unfinished painting beside the window.
What would your brother have wanted you to do after his call?
The answer took almost ten minutes.
Pick up.
Then:
So now I try to pick up.
The next morning, I woke to sixteen missed calls.
Not from Lucian.
From the hospital.
My stomach dropped.
I called back.
A nurse transferred me to my doctor.
“Amelia, I need you to come in.”
“Why?”
“We reviewed your latest imaging.”
“I thought you already did.”
“We did.”
His voice sounded different.
Not hopeful.
Not exactly.
Careful.
“There is a discrepancy.”
I sat up.
Evelyn appeared in the doorway.
“What kind of discrepancy?”
“The scan used for part of yesterday's prognosis may not have been correctly matched in the system.”
I couldn't process the words.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need you here.”
“When?”
“Now.”
An hour later, Evelyn and I sat in the same consultation room where I'd been told I had seven days.
My doctor entered with another physician.
Dr. Shah.
Specialist in advanced oncology.
The second physician introduced herself as Dr. Lena Ortiz, from the hospital's internal review team.
My heart hammered.
Dr. Shah sat.
“Amelia, first, I owe you an apology.”
I stared.
He continued.
“Your condition is still very serious.”
Hope rose.
I hated it instantly.
He lifted a hand.
May you like
“Please let me finish.”
I forced myself to breathe.
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