A storm raged the night Elias fell.
Rain battered the windows,
wind howled like the sea mourning,
and his coughs came like thunder—
violent, relentless.
Blood bloomed on his lips,
a crimson echo of the end he had hidden.
Celeste rushed him to the hospital,
her hands slick with rain and panic,
fear clawing at her throat
as monitors screamed his truth.
The doctors didn't lie.
"He's fading fast."
She sat by his side,
her hand wrapped around his—
fragile, chilled,
flickering.
"Why?" she demanded,
tears carving silence into her cheeks.
"Why hide this from me?"
His gaze, dim but unwavering,
searched hers.
"I didn't want to weigh you down,"
he whispered,
his voice ragged velvet.
"You have your own fight."
She shook her head,
her fingers trembling against his skin.
"We're together,"
she said, breaking.
"I need to know when it's slipping away."
He coughed, a breath breaking him in two,
and smiled.
"I love you,"
he said,
frail but unshakable.
"More than the fear. More than the time I lost."
Through the night,
they spoke—
whispers against the beep of machines.
Of fears buried in ink.
Of dreams painted in salt and starlight.
Of the cliff.
Of the girl.
Of forgiveness.
Of legacy.
Of love that didn't need a future
to be eternal.
In the days that followed,
as dawn returned and he still breathed,
they created.
Together.
Celeste painted him bathed in morning gold,
alive in the light of her heart.
Elias wrote her into every line,
his poems fierce and fragile—
a hymn against the dark.
Art bloomed between them—
not as escape,
but defiance.
A promise
etched in canvas and verse:
they would seize
every
remaining
moment.