Last Shot at Love

In my shabby apartment in Manhattan's East Village, I sat in the army-green folding chair, the hospital diagnosis report rustling in my trembling hands.

[Advanced malignant tumor, multi-organ metastasis, estimated survival: 4-6 weeks.]

"One month..." My voice echoed in the empty room. "That's merciful."

A bitter smile crossed my pale face: "At least it's more certain than waiting for bombs to explode in Baghdad."

Tag, curled at my feet, sensed the change in my emotions and whimpered uneasily. The German Shepherd's brown eyes locked onto mine, the notch missing from his right ear—a battlefield souvenir—particularly visible in the light.

I scanned the walls: war photographs, Purple Heart medal, pain medication bottles and PTSD treatment records scattered across the table. This was the sum of my twenty-nine years.

"Old buddy," I bent down to stroke Tag's head, "if I croak, would you gnaw my bones to survive?"

Tag whined and nuzzled my palm.

"What a grim picture..." I stood up. "I need to find you a new home."

In the kitchen, I opened the fridge to prepare food for Tag, only to realize I hadn't eaten properly in days. No appetite, rapid weight loss—I knew these symptoms well, but I was still shaken by the timeline the doctor had given me.

Tag refused to eat, stubbornly staring at me. His service dog training made him detect danger signals—I was giving off a scent he recognized from the battlefield.

The smell of death.

"Eat," I pushed the bowl toward him. "Either way, you need to survive."

Tag still didn't move, just fixed those alert eyes on me.

I crouched down, pressing my face close to his head: "You stubborn bastard... what happens to you when I'm gone?"

As the sun set, the room grew darker. I thought of someone—someone I had sworn I'd never contact again.

In the living room, I sat on the couch scrolling through my phone contacts. Street lights began to flicker on outside, orange glow seeping through the curtains.

My finger stopped on a name I had blocked three years ago: Ryan.

Field medic, professional, cold, former lover. The icy finality of our breakup was still vivid in my memory.

"Three years..." I took a deep breath, removing Ryan from my blocked list. "Hope you haven't changed your number, asshole."

I dialed.

One ring, two rings, three...

Tag sensed the tension, lying against my leg, his warm body pressed close.

After seven rings, someone picked up.

"Hello?" A familiar yet strange male voice.

"Ryan? It's me, Alexandra."

Brief silence, then—the dial tone.

He had hung up.

I gritted my teeth and immediately redialed.

This time it only rang twice.

"You actually dare to call." Ryan's voice dripped with hostility, sharp as ice.

"I need a favor..."

"A favor?" Ryan laughed coldly. "I thought you were already dead on some battlefield."

"Close enough." I closed my eyes. "Listen, I'm dying. Really. One month left. Can you handle my body and take Tag?"

Harsh laughter came through the phone.

"You're finally going to die?" Ryan's tone was full of sarcasm. "After you betrayed me, took my mother's money, abandoned your own parents—you deserve to die."

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, unsure if it was the tumor or my heart.

"Playing dead to get sympathy? You think I still have feelings for you?" Ryan's voice grew colder. "If you're really dying, sure, I'll handle your corpse. Perfect chance to make an hourglass from your ashes."

"Ryan..."

"PTSD acting up again? What's the new trick to get sympathy this time?"

I gripped the phone tighter: "PTSD-aggravated malignant tumor, multi-organ metastasis, personally diagnosed by Dr. Martinez at Presbyterian Hospital. You can call to verify."

Sudden silence fell on the other end.

After several seconds, Ryan's voice returned, still ice-cold: "...You really think I still care whether you live or die?"

"Better if you don't," I smiled bitterly. "Then you can watch me die with a clear conscience."

Dial tone.

He had hung up again.

I redialed Ryan's number.

The moment the ringing started, I jumped in before he could hang up: "Don't hang up! I know you hate my guts, but hear me out! I really only have a month left!"

Heavy breathing came from the other end.

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white: "This is a genuine death certificate. PTSD-aggravated advanced malignant tumor, diagnosed by the oncology department at Presbyterian Hospital. Ryan, you're a doctor—if you saw the report, you'd know better than anyone—"

"To get back into my good graces, you'd even fake dying?" Ryan suddenly burst into sharp laughter that echoed through the phone. "You really would do anything."

"This is a medically certified countdown to death." My voice was terrifyingly calm. "Ryan, after this month, you couldn't buy the 'ex-girlfriend's deathbed care VIP experience' for any amount of money."

Angry panting came through the phone.

I continued, "About that hourglass idea you mentioned earlier... I think it's brilliant. If you make an hourglass from me, you could watch my ashes flow down grain by grain every day, reminding you of your revenge's sweet satisfaction."

"You goddamn—!" Ryan roared furiously.

The call was violently disconnected.

I listened to the dial tone, a bitter smile crossing my lips. Tag sensed my emotions and came over, pressing his warm body against my leg.

"Looks like we really are going to die alone, old buddy." I stroked his head. "At least you won't mind the taste of my ashes."

At that time, I had no idea Ryan would turn up at my house within half an hour.