He Ignored My Cancer, I Called Off Our Wedding

The day I got my terminal gastric cancer diagnosis, my fiancé, Wilson, posted a photo to his i********: feed. In the picture was his new intern, a girl who looked almost exactly like his first love; seven out of ten features matched. She was slurping quick-cook pasta in an oversized white lab coat that hung off her frame. His caption read: Clumsy little thing, managed to burn herself just by eating pasta. One of his friends teased in the comments: A: [Whoa, old fossil, what gives? I had no idea you even used i********:!] He deleted the post in the blink of an eye. But he never replied to the message I'd sent him telling him about my diagnosis. The next day, we were on our way to the marriage registry to get our license. I bit back waves of searing stomach pain the whole drive. "Wilson," I asked softly, "can we take a quick selfie together to post on i********: to mark the day? Please?" He furrowed his brow, his face twisted into a sneer of disgust, and shoved my phone away. "You know I hate posting on i********:. What's the point of this dumb performative crap anyway?" At that exact moment, I swallowed back the coppery tang of blood crawling up my throat. And along with it, I swallowed every last bit of love I'd ever held for him. "If that's how you feel," I said, "then forget about getting the marriage license. I don't have much time left anyway." The words left my mouth, and I turned on my heel and walked away. Wilson's furious roar boomed out behind me. "Queenie Whitmore! Have you had enough of this ridiculous act? You're throwing this all away just because I wouldn't post a stupid i********: post? This pathetic, tiny little thing? We're standing right outside the Civil Affairs Bureau! Are you playing me for a fool right now?" I didn't slow my steps. The gnawing pain in my stomach was so bad that cold sweat was dripping down my back in rivulets. Wilson stormed after me in a few long strides and wrenched my wrist hard in his grip. His brow was drawn tight, and his eyes blazed with nothing but impatience and loathing. "You're twenty-seven years old, not seventeen. Can't you stop acting like a spoiled brat who never grew up, throwing break-up threats in my face over every little thing? "i********: posts are just for vain people who crave attention. If you really want to post something so bad, just post it yourself, can't you? Why do you have to force me to do it? What's the point of that?" I bit down on the pain, tilting my world sideways and lifted my head to look at him. This was the face I had loved for seven whole years. For him, I'd sanded down all my sharp edges and set aside my own dreams to keep his house and cook his meals. I'd even dragged myself off the floor, where I'd been rolling in agony from stomach cramps, just to cook him that special creamed rice to soothe his stomach. But right now, staring at him standing there blaming me like he was totally on the right, I barely recognized the man in front of me. "You're right. It doesn't mean anything." My voice came out rough and scratchy, the coppery tang of blood still lingered thick in my throat. "That's why I'm calling off the wedding." Wilson actually laughed out of sheer anger. He released my wrist. "Fine, Queenie. You've got some nerve. You saw what I posted yesterday, didn't you?" There it was. He finally brought it up. Yesterday, the day I got my terminal gastric cancer diagnosis, I'd sent him a message. Queenie: Wilson, I'm sick. It's really serious. Can you come back and stay with me? He never replied. But five minutes later, he posted on i********:. In the photo, that intern Luisa Johnson was wearing an oversized white coat, holding a cup of quick-cook pasta, grinning so wide her little tiger fangs peeked out. That white coat was Wilson's. He was obsessed with cleanliness, never let anyone touch his things. Even when I borrowed one of his shirts to wear once, he'd chase me straight to the bathroom to make me shower it off, disgusted the whole time. But he'd let that girl slip right into it, and even captioned the post: Clumsy thing, managed to burn yourself just quick-cook pasta. That oozing affection had cut straight through my chest even when I'd seen it through my phone screen. "Queenie, don't be so petty." When I stayed quiet, Wilson assumed I had nothing to say for myself, and his tone got even more smug and self-righteous. "Luisa has just started at the hospital, she doesn't know anything. I'm her senior, what's wrong with me looking out for her a little? She's innocent, not like you, always paranoid and suspecting every little thing. She burned her hand yesterday and was crying. I just comforted her a little. You have to blow everything out of proportion?" So that was what he thought of me. I dug my nails so hard into my palm, the sharp pain kept my head clear. "Wilson, did you read the message I sent you yesterday?" He froze for a second, looking caught off guard, then fished his phone out of his pocket, clearly annoyed. "What message? I'm swamped with work. Who has time to stare at their phone all day?" The words hadn’t even left his mouth when his phone blared to life. It was that special notification tone for favorite contacts. Wilson’s face shifted instantly, and he fumbled to answer the call. "Hello? Luisa? What’s wrong? Don’t cry, speak slowly... You cut your hand again? How can you be so clumsy?" The second he hung up, he didn’t even spare me a glance before spinning around and heading straight for his car. I stepped straight into his path, blocking him. "Wilson, today is supposed to be the day we get our marriage license. And I need to tell you something… about my health…" "Enough!" He shoved me hard with one arm. I was already weak from pain, and the force sent me stumbling backward until I collapsed on the flower bed by the curb. My palm scraped raw against the rough concrete, and warm blood seeped right through the broken skin. Wilson stared down at me from where he stood, no pity in his eyes, nothing but disgust. "Queenie, what the hell are you putting on this act for? Luisa’s at the hospital bleeding out from cutting fruit, and you’re still here throwing a jealous fit? Take a cab home by yourself. Stop making a fool of yourself out here!" With that, he wrenched open his car door and peeled out, leaving me crumbling in the dust. I was left alone, hunched and disheveled, right there on the steps in front of the Civil Affairs Bureau entrance. Passersby around me whispered and pointed, their gossip cutting through the air. "What happened to that girl? Did she just get dumped?" "Poor thing… her face is as white as a ghost." My hands shaking so hard I could barely hold anything, I dug my pill bottle out of my bag and dry-swallowed two painkillers. The pills scraped down my raw throat, and bitter numbness spread through my whole body.