It became a pattern.
Every odd day.
Same time. Same place.
He'd walk in with a bottle—whiskey, gin, absinthe, it didn't matter—and not say a word.
And I wouldn't stop him.
I'd tell myself I could handle it. That it was temporary. That it meant something, even if he was trying to prove otherwise.
He was always rough. Always distant. Always behind me, like he couldn't stand to see my face.
The only time he ever spoke to me was to say three things—'Shut up,' 'Stop,' or 'Bend over.' That was all I ever got. No tenderness. No love. Just commands.
And I let him command me.
I let him, because I thought maybe this was the only way he'd stay close to me. Because I thought maybe this was my punishment.
Because maybe... I deserved it.
And every time, when it was over, he left without looking back.
No kiss. No touch. No warmth.
Just the echo of running water and the silence he left behind.
And somehow, that silence hurt worse than the rest.
It was a Friday.
No work for Alekos today. No distractions. No excuses.
He sat at the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee, a half-eaten bacon and egg sandwich on his plate.
I paused for a second when I saw it—how familiar it looked.
The toast. The way he bit into it. The faint grease on his fingertips.
I remembered the morning we made it together, laughing as the bread burned in the pan and the eggs kept slipping off the plate. We were so loud. So happy.
It almost felt like we were married.
Like it was real.
Now? He looked up at me, and I could see it—his eyes empty, searching, but too proud to speak.
I didn't say anything either. Just slipped on my shoes.
A part of me hoped he'd ask where I was going.
He didn't.
So I grabbed my keys.
And I left.
I parked in front of the hospital I once worked at, the building strangely familiar yet distant. I was just here for a routine check-up—bloodwork, weight, blood pressure. The usual.
Then I slowly approached Vanessa's office.
Vanessa's face was the kind of still that told you everything before she even opened her mouth.
"It's spreading," she said. "Aggressively."
The words echoed.
My hands trembled in my lap.
"The chance of pregnancy… it's shrinking fast. I'm so sorry, Selin."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
It felt like my heart had been hollowed out.
Vanessa sat beside me, gently placing a hand over mine. "Is Alekos not with you?"
That broke me.
So I told her everything.
The contract. The odd days. The bathroom.
The seventh night.
The Hennessy. The silence.
His I love you.
And my cowardice.
At some point, Marianne joined us, quietly sitting across from me, listening with soft eyes and a clenched jaw.
Neither of them said a word when I admitted the truth.
That I stopped taking most of my cancer meds—only continuing the few that gave me a slim chance of becoming a mother.
They didn't judge me.
But now… they knew why.
I didn't want to die without giving Alekos something to remember me by, and I wanted to achieve one thing I truly wanted.
Something to hold onto.
A part of me that wouldn't leave when I did.
I loved him.
But I never wanted him to spend the rest of his life loving a ghost.
I wiped my tears, thanked them both, and left.
The hallway outside Pediatrics was bright. Too bright.
Children's laughter rang in the background. Nurses pushed around tiny carts with glitter stickers on them. Somewhere, a baby cried.
This was once my favorite floor.
The only place where I felt like I mattered.
I smiled softly. Then walked past.
I don't know what pulled me toward Alton Csepel's office.
Maybe curiosity.
Maybe fate.
The door was half-open. He looked up when I knocked.
"Selin," he said, surprised. "It's been a while."
"Mind if I come in?"
He gestured for me to sit.
"You look tired," he said after a beat.
"I am."
He nodded. "It's hard to stay when you're grieving something."
I didn't ask if he meant me or Alekos.
But, we both knew the answer.
Dr. Alton Csepel stood a few paces away, quiet, but present. He didn't say anything right away. He just observed her—the way her chest barely moved, how her eyes were distant, wet.
"I spoke to Vanessa," he said finally.
I closed her eyes. "Of course you did."
"She's worried about you."
"So is everyone." My voice cracked, tired and bitter.
Alton exhaled and stepped closer, not with the distance of a doctor, but the weight of a man who'd seen too many lives fall apart under his silence.
"You know my son is complicated," he said gently.
I looked up, eyes suddenly aching. "I live with him. You think I don't know that?"
Alton nodded slowly. "But complexity doesn't erase his right to the truth. Selin… if you don't tell him, and something happens to you—" his voice faltered, just for a second—"he will never forgive himself. And worse… you won't forgive yourself either."
I stared at him, struggling to hold myself together.
"I thought I was protecting him," she whispered.
Alton's expression hardened—not with anger, but with the pain of lived mistakes. "That's what I thought too."
Her brow furrowed.
"I thought shielding Alekos meant controlling him. Silencing him. Hitting him." His voice grew tight. "I raised my hand to my own son. For years, I told myself it was discipline. But the truth is... I was afraid. Afraid he'd turn into something I couldn't control. Turn into me"
My lips parted, stunned.
"I saw the anger in him early on," Alton continued. "I saw the hurt I caused. And I watched him build walls so high even you can barely get through them now."
I blinked back more tears, my voice barely audible. "You regret it."
"Every day," he said. "And that's why I'm standing here, asking you to do what I didn't: choose honesty over pride. Don't die with this secret. Don't let him mourn you with questions he'll never get answers to."
I looked away, my voice breaking. "He won't stay if I tell him. He'll see how selfish I was… how I stopped the meds just to try and be a mother."
Alton stepped beside her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder—not as a doctor, not as Alekos's father, but as someone who had made all the wrong decisions and somehow lived long enough to warn the next person not to.
"He might leave. He might be angry. But at least he'll know. At least he'll understand why."
A long silence passed between them.
Then, Alton said, barely above a whisper, "He loves you, Selin. In the only way he knows how. Messy. Guarded. Stupidly. And if you really love him too… tell him. Let him grieve now, not later. Because later, you won't be here to help him through it."
I didn't even remember turning the key in the ignition.
Everything felt like static. My body moved, but my mind stayed behind—back in that hallway, with his father's voice echoing in my skull like it belonged to a memory I didn't want.
"Don't let him mourn you with questions he'll never get answers to."
I kept hearing it. Over and over again.
I don't even know why I pulled into the frozen yogurt place. Maybe part of me just needed something normal. Something sweet. Something that didn't come from a sterile box labeled "prescription."
I stood at the counter and stared at the options for way too long.
Strawberries. Pomegranate. Chocolate syrup. Marshmallows.
All his favorites.
I didn't even hesitate—I just built it the way he liked it. He always acted like he didn't care, like toppings were whatever. But I'd seen the way he picked around the edge when I forgot the marshmallows once. I never forgot again.
And me?
I got a plain one. No toppings. No syrup. Nothing.
It used to be a vanilla bean. Then it became "whatever's light." Today… it just tasted like silence.
I'm starting to lose my appetite.
Slowly. Slowly.
Like my body is dimming itself down without asking me for permission.
By the time I got home, the yogurt was already soft in my hand. Melting. Like me.
I stood at the door for a second, keys still in the lock. Part of me hoped he wasn't home. That I could just put it in the freezer and lie on the floor for a while.
But I saw his shoes.
He was here.
I stepped inside, clutching the bag a little tighter.
He didn't look up from the couch right away. His head was tilted back, resting against the top of the cushion, and his eyes were half-lidded like he'd been fighting sleep.
I set the yogurt down in front of him gently.
He blinked. Looked at the cup. Then at me.
"You brought me yogurt?"
I nodded, trying to smile. "Strawberries, pomegranate… chocolate syrup, marshmallows."
His eyes softened, but his voice was flat. "You didn't get anything for yourself?"
I held up my plain cup. "This is mine."
He looked at it, then at me.
"You hate plain."
I shrugged. "Not today."
He didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
Alekos
I didn't expect her to bring anything back.
She didn't announce herself or call my name from the hallway. She just walked in and set a frozen yogurt cup in front of me like we weren't both bleeding out quietly.
Chocolate syrup.
Strawberries. Pomegranate. Marshmallows.
She remembered. Of course she did.
I looked up. She held her own cup in one hand—plain. No toppings. Just… white.
"You hate plain," I said without thinking.
She shrugged. "Not today."
Her voice was soft. Not tired. Empty.
I looked back down at the yogurt. The marshmallows were already caving in from the warmth of the room. I hated how grateful I felt in that moment. And I hated that it made me want to talk.
So I didn't.
I sat back, straightened my shoulders, and let the silence sit between us. Let it burn.
Then I reminded her—like a damn machine—"It's an odd day."
That was it. That was all I gave her. The contractual reminder. The one rule we never said out loud but always obeyed.
Her lips parted slightly, like she was going to say something.
Then she nodded.
And I'll never forget how hollow her voice was when she answered, "I'm not in the mood."
She stood up, walked away, and left her untouched yogurt cup on the table beside mine.
No yelling. No argument. No sarcasm. Just… nothing.
I watched her go.
Didn't stop her.
Didn't know how.
But something sat heavy in my gut as I stared down at those two cups. One with everything, one with nothing.
I knew she was hiding something.
Selin always had this way of pretending she was fine—overcompensating with effort, acts of service, trying to keep the peace. But this wasn't that.
This was something else.
Her silence today wasn't controlled.
It was surrender.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was winning whatever fight we were always in.
I felt like I was losing her.
And I didn't even know why.
Selin
I didn't cry when Alton told me to tell him the truth.
I didn't even cry when I got the yogurt.
But now?
Now I was in my room, alone, door closed, lights off, and everything just started unraveling in silence.
I sank onto the floor. I didn't even make it to the bed. My knees hit the carpet, and my chest caved in on itself. The tears came hot and fast, like my body was purging something it had no name for. My face was wet. My hands were shaking. My whole body ached—not the way cancer made me ache, but the kind that came from holding in too much for too long.
I wanted it to stop.
I just wanted it to stop.
My sobs were soundless. Just broken gasps. Like I was choking on everything I couldn't say out loud.
And then, like some haunted instinct, I got up. Walked out of the room.
Not because I had a plan. But because my body moved before I could think.
I ended up in his room.
His scent was there. Wood. Cologne. A faint trace of laundry detergent and sweat.
I walked to his dresser and opened the bottom drawer. He always kept it hidden, like I didn't know. But I knew.
The bottle was still half full. Hennessy.
The same one he sipped from that night I cried in the bathroom.
I unscrewed the cap. The smell hit me instantly.
I raised it to my lips and drank.
It burned. But not enough.
I took another sip. A longer one.
And then nothing.
Still nothing.
It wasn't numbing anything. It wasn't calming the ache. It just sat there in my stomach like guilt.
I stood in the middle of his room, staring at the wall. No tears now. No breakdown. Just a girl with alcohol on her breath and cancer in her blood and no idea how to tell the only boy she ever loved that she was dying.
Because that's what he was. That's all he ever was.
Not my husband.
Not my one-night mistake.
Not the boy I married for religion or paperwork or babies.
He was my best friend.
And all I could think about—while my body was slowly killing itself—was him.
I put the bottle down. I didn't even bother hiding it.
I didn't cry again.
I didn't scream.
I just…stood there.
Alekos
I walked into my room and stopped dead in the doorway.
Selin.
She was standing by my dresser, holding my bottle of Hennessy like it was water. Not even hiding it.
I snapped.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Just took another sip and stared blankly at the floor like I wasn't even there.
"Selin," I growled, stepping closer, "answer me."
Still nothing.
I reached for the bottle, but she let it go before I could. Just set it down on the dresser like she was done with it.
I grabbed her wrist.
"Are you drunk?"
That's when I noticed it—her skin under my hand. It wasn't just cold.
It was thin.
Not like her usual dainty kind of thin. Not the kind she used to joke about in tank tops and crop tops.
This was… fragile. Like holding paper over bone.
I looked down.
Her sleeve had ridden up slightly. Her arm looked like it barely existed under it.
I pulled the hoodie hem up before she could stop me.
And I froze.
Her waist. Her stomach. Her ribs.
Skinny.
Too skinny.
Like she hadn't eaten in days. Weeks. And I hadn't even noticed. Not once. She was always in oversized clothes. Always curled up. Always brushing me off with sarcasm and silence.
My heart thudded against my chest.
"Why didn't you—"
She cut me off.
Her voice was calm. Detached. But it sliced clean through me.
"Why do you always drink when we fuck?"
Silence.
The room turned to static.
My hand let go of her.
She turned to face me, finally. Her eyes were glassy. Not with tears. With knowing. Like she'd carried that question for a long time. Like it had been sitting on her tongue for weeks, maybe months.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"I—" I started. But there wasn't an excuse good enough. Not one that didn't sound pathetic.
Selin tilted her head slightly, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "Is it me? Is it that bad?"
"No," I said instantly, the word flying out of me like a bullet. "No, Selin. That's not it."
"Then what is it?"
I couldn't answer.
Because the truth was: I didn't know.
Or maybe I did, and I just hated saying it out loud.
I drank because I was afraid I'd feel too much.
Because her skin against mine made everything too real.
Because when she looked at me, I forgot this was supposed to be a deal.
Because if I didn't drink, I'd want her.
And I didn't know how to want someone who might not be here tomorrow.
I stepped back, hands trembling.
Selin looked down at herself, at the bones she tried to hide, and whispered, "You didn't notice."
"I—"
"No," she said quietly. "Don't lie. You didn't."
And she was right.
I didn't notice.
Because I was too busy pretending I didn't care.
I didn't think. I couldn't.
One second she was looking at me with those wide, breakable eyes, and the next… I kissed her.
It wasn't smooth. It wasn't the kind of kiss you rehearse in your head a thousand times. It was raw, clumsy even — a collision of everything I couldn't say.
Her mouth opened against mine, soft and trembling, and I swear my chest caved in. My hands found her face, her jaw, the back of her neck — anything to hold onto, because if I let go, I'd drown.
And maybe I already was.
She pulled me under like no bottle ever could. I'd been drunk before — the kind of drunk that makes you numb, makes the world spin until you forget who you are. But Selin… she wasn't that. She was worse. Better. Both.
Every breath of hers lit me up, every kiss was gasoline, and I was a match.
No alcohol. No smoke. Just her.
Clothes hit the floor, but I barely noticed. All I knew was the heat of her skin against mine, the way she whispered my name like a prayer and a curse at the same time. She didn't just get under my skin — she rewrote me from the inside out.
I'd sworn never to lose control again. Not to fists, not to anger, not to anyone. But with her, I didn't just lose it — I gave it away.
Because Selin didn't taste like escape. She tasted like truth.