TOO LATE, MY LOVE

The Diagnosis

On the day Aitana Bonmatí is diagnosed with stomach cancer, her husband, Pedri Miller, is across the city taking care of his first love's children.

The hospital corridor smells of antiseptic and stale coffee. Aitana sits on a hard plastic chair, her slender fingers wrapped so tightly around the strap of her sling bag that the leather bites into her palm. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on pale linoleum. She does not fidget. She does not cry. She simply waits, her petite face white as bone.

Footsteps approach. Keith Rogers emerges from the pathology lab, his white coat unbuttoned, a manila folder clutched in his hand. His grey eyes are tired, and they give everything away before he speaks.

"Aitana, the results are out." He lifts the folder. "It's a 3A malignant gastric tumor. If the surgery is successful, the five-year survival rate is between fifteen and thirty percent."

The words hit like stones dropped into still water. Fifteen to thirty percent. She turns the numbers over, but they refuse to make sense. A nurse's cart rattles somewhere. The vending machine hums. The world keeps spinning while hers stops.

She looks up, her voice barely a whisper. "Keith, how long do I have left to live if I don't do the surgery?"

Keith shifts his weight. The folder cracks open, but he doesn't need to read it. "Six months to a year. It's different for everyone. In your case, it's better to do two rounds of chemotherapy first before the surgery. It will prevent the risk of the tumor spreading or undergoing metastasis."

A year. Maybe less. She thinks of all the mornings she has wasted in that cold penthouse, waiting for a man who never comes home. She thinks of the nursery down the hall, the empty crib, the music box that still plays its lullaby to no one. All that suffering, and now time itself is being stolen from her.

"Chemotherapy," she says, and her voice cracks on the word. "Will I lose my hair?"

Keith's face softens, but only a little. "Some patients do. Others don't. But hair is a small price for a chance at more time."

"More time," she repeats, as if the phrase belongs to a foreign language. "I don't even know what I would do with more time."

"You would live, Aitana. That is enough for now."

She bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper. "Thank you, Keith."

"Don't thank me." He closes the folder. "I'll arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital right away. We can start the first chemotherapy cycle this week. You need to act quickly, Aitana. This kind of tumor doesn't wait."

She nods, but the motion feels disconnected, as if someone else is controlling her head. She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and walks toward the elevator. Her footsteps echo in the empty hallway. She passes a window that looks out onto a grey Manhattan sky. The city moves beneath her—yellow cabs honking, pedestrians rushing, life roaring on without a care. Up here, everything is silent and still, as if she already exists in a different world.

Inside the elevator, she pulls out her phone. No missed calls. No messages. She types a text to Pedri: "I need to talk to you tonight. It's important." Her thumb hovers over send. Then she remembers where he is right now—probably sitting in a brightly colored pediatric clinic on the Upper East Side, laughing softly as Alessia's child giggles, his face relaxed into the gentle man he never is at home. She deletes the message and shoves the phone back into her bag.

For a moment, she thinks of calling her father. She can already hear his warm voice, the way he says her name as if she is still his little girl. But she cannot call him. If he hears the break in her voice, he will worry. He will drive into the city. He will look at her with those sad, knowing eyes, and she will fall apart. So she does not call. She simply stands in the elevator, alone with a death sentence folded neatly inside her purse.

The elevator doors slide open. She walks out into the cold afternoon. A sharp wind whips between the skyscrapers, tugging at her coat. A street vendor shouts about roasted nuts. A bike messenger weaves past. She stands on the curb, and for the first time all day, tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

She doesn't let them fall.

Back at the penthouse, silence greets her like an enemy. Marble floors gleam under recessed lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering skyline, but the beauty mocks her. She drops her bag on the kitchen island. Her hand trembles as she pours water. The glass slips. It shatters on the marble, water spreading in a slow, clear pool.

She stares at the broken glass. A sob rises in her throat, but she swallows it down. No one is here to hear it anyway.

The hours crawl. Pedri does not come home. She heats a can of soup she cannot eat. She sits on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, watching city lights blink on one by one. Somewhere out there, her husband is with another woman, living a warm life that does not include her. And inside her body, a silent enemy is multiplying, cell by cell, stealing her future.

At midnight, she hears the elevator ding in the hallway.

The front door opens.

Pedri walks in.

He doesn't acknowledge her. He shrugs off his coat, loosens his tie, and heads toward the bedroom—their bedroom, though he never sleeps there. His eyes pass over her like she's furniture.

And something inside Aitana snaps.

"Pedri." Her voice cuts through the silence, sharp and clear. "I have cancer."

He stops mid-step. His back is to her. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then slowly, he turns.

His face is unreadable. But his eyes—something flickers there. Surprise? Concern? Or just irritation at being interrupted?

"Stomach cancer," she continues, her voice steady now. "Stage 3A. I have six months to a year without surgery. I thought you should know before I sign the divorce papers."

The silence stretches between them like a wire pulled too tight.

Then Pedri's jaw tightens. He takes one step toward her. Then another. His presence fills the room, cold and suffocating.

"Divorce papers?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You think you get to leave me, Aitana?"

She doesn't flinch. "You've already left me a thousand times."

He moves closer, stopping just inches from her. She can smell his cologne, expensive and sharp. She can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. For a heartbeat, she sees something else in his eyes—something raw and hungry and terrified.

Then he says, "We'll see about that."

He walks past her, down the hall, and slams the bedroom door.

Aitana stands alone in the living room, her heart pounding, the word cancer still hanging in the air like smoke.

The doorbell rings.

She freezes.

No one visits this penthouse. No one ever visits. The only people who know this address are Pedri's lawyers, his assistant, and—

The doorbell rings again. Insistent. Urgent.

Aitana walks to the door, her bare feet cold on the marble. She doesn't check the peephole. She just pulls it open.

And she stops breathing.