Nine Calls to Goodbye

"We promised each other ten PM calls every single night, no matter what was happening in our lives."

That promise used to mean everything to Eric, until it became nothing but busy tones and angry hang-ups while some other woman's perfume lingered on his shirts. The signs were all there, but I kept dialing anyway.

On cancer diagnosis day, I called him nine times and watched each call go straight to voicemail. When he finally answered the tenth, Stella was giggling in the background and all he said was, "Wren, seriously, stop being such a pain in the ass."

I choked down my bloody pills, stared at my engagement ring, and felt the strangest thing—absolutely nothing. The pain had just vanished.

I dropped the ring next to the signed papers and disappeared from his world.

Wren's POV

"Wren, I'm swamped. Nine calls just to ask when I'm coming home? Get a hobby or something instead of acting like a clingy wife."

His voice was tired and pissed off, jazz music from some fancy restaurant playing behind him.

I gripped my phone, knuckles white. Blood rose in my throat. I swallowed it down. "Eric, today is—"

"Whatever today is, it's not more important than this deal I'm closing!" He cut me off. "Stella's waiting for me to check the numbers. I don't have time for guessing games. I'm staying at the hotel tonight. Don't call again."

Click.

The dial tone echoed through my empty apartment.

I slowly put down my phone. The screen lit up the thin paper on my coffee table.

Mount Sinai Hospital. Diagnosis report. Cold black letters: Glioblastoma multiforme, Stage IV.

When the doctor told me, snow was falling outside—New York's first of the season. "Wren, the tumor is pressing on your optic nerve and speech center. Best case scenario... you've got less than six months."

Six months.

I was twenty-six with only one hundred and eighty days left.

When they handed me that paper, the first person I thought of was Eric. Five years ago when we were crazy in love, he'd laughed and said, "Wren, when I make my first million, we're getting married."

I remembered him on one knee, sliding that custom diamond onto my finger. "No matter how busy I get, I'll call you every night at ten. That's my promise. Proof that I love you."

Now the clock read 10:15 PM.

The guy who used to act like our ten PM calls were everything had just hung up on the most important call of my life. For another woman.

My vision started blurring—not tears, but that thing in my head pressing on my nerves.

I fumbled for my pills, shook out two, and swallowed them dry.

My phone buzzed. Instagram. Stella's post from five minutes ago.

Two champagne glasses against some Michelin-starred backdrop. Caption: "Someone always makes time for you, even when they're busy. Happy Birthday to me."

At the edge of the shot—a man's wrist. That Patek Philippe I'd blown my savings on for Eric's birthday.

So his "deal" was celebrating his new partner's birthday.

Before, I would've been shaking with rage. Called him until he picked up. Demanded answers. Started a fight.

Now, staring at that photo, I felt nothing.

I felt bone-deep tired in a way I'd never felt before.

I walked to the bathroom mirror. Pale skin, hollow eyes, brown hair that used to be thick and shiny.

I looked at the diamond on my finger. Used to be my most precious thing. Now it felt like a chain.

I wet my hands with soap, slowly worked the ring off.

When it hit the marble with a sharp ting, I felt lighter.

"It's over," I whispered.

No tears. No breakdown. Just a dying woman letting go of things that were never really hers.

I went back and started packing. I didn't have much in this penthouse full of Eric's stuff—golf clubs, suits, wine collection. I was like a ghost living in his space.

I packed my easel, some books, everyday clothes. The designer bags he'd bought me? Didn't touch them.

At 2 AM, the front door beeped open.

Eric walked in smelling like cold air and expensive scotch. He loosened his tie, saw the lights on and me on the couch. His face went dark.

"Still up? Waiting for me again?" He tossed his briefcase down. "Didn't I say I was staying at the hotel? You trying to guilt trip me?"

I sat there watching him. His eyes were red—he looked beat. But under his cedar cologne, I caught Stella's sweet vanilla scent.

"I wasn't waiting." My voice was rough.

Eric laughed coldly and went to pour himself water. "Right. Then what are you doing? Having a 2 AM moment? Wren, grow up. Stella's my business partner, it was her birthday, the whole team was there. What's wrong with the CEO showing up?"

Desperate to prove himself innocent while making everything my fault.

Before, I would've cried and asked if my calls didn't matter.

Now I just looked at him like a stranger.

"You're right." I stood up. "Get some rest. I'm going to bed."

That caught him off guard. He'd loaded up arguments but got cold nothing, which seemed to piss him off more.

"What game is this?" He grabbed my wrist. "Wren, I'm exhausted. I don't have energy for your silent treatment."

I looked at his hand gripping mine. That hand used to warm me through winters. Now it just felt cold.

"No games, Eric." I pulled free, gentle but firm. "I think you're right. I have been too immature."

I headed for the guest room instead of our bedroom.

As I closed the door, I heard him angrily kicking something in the living room.

He thought I was just throwing a fit. Tomorrow he'd buy roses and I'd forgive him like always.

He didn't know my time was running out.