How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Elodie drifted somewhere between sleep and waking.

She felt dampness on the back of her hand, and the pain in her abdomen had faded to a dull ache. She recognized these sensations-someone must have given her a painkiller.

Turning her head, she met Jarrod's gaze. His eyes were rimmed red, betraying sleepless worry.

When he saw her awake, he opened his mouth to speak, but his voice caught, dry and hoarse. He swallowed hard before finally managing, "Are you feeling any better? Does it still hurt?"

Elodie shook her head, her eyes falling to where Jarrod's hand clasped hers. The moisture on her skin was clearly from his tears.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice carrying the familiar phrase she'd repeated so often it had become second nature.

The words made Jarrod tense, shoulders stiffening. He couldn't let himself dwell on how Elodie had survived those endless nights of pain on her own. She'd always been the strong one-even her grandmother and uncle had no idea. Elodie had never been the kind to complain.

time, Jarrod didn't let go. Instead, his grip tightened, as if he was afraid she might

unsettled her. This wasn't the Jarrod she

you went through alone... was it hard?" Jarrod gently brushed the tears from

used to it. You accept things

would only have made things messier-kept those who cared for her up at night, frantic with worry. She'd rather wait until the final treatment, spare them

angle. But she was ruthlessly rational. She was an

needed

But at the time, you were with someone else. Was I supposed to

she'd thought all last year. If Jarrod had moved on, why would she use her illness, or the fact that time was running out, to keep him by her side?

in his heart. Every time she thought he cared, he'd find a way to shatter her hopes he never shared anything with her never

was preserve a little dignity for

no accusation-only the truth of how

her instincts to protect herself were nothing but natural.