Terminal Diagnosis, Terminal Love

"Ms. Keane, the test results are not very favorable. You've been diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer. If you refuse treatment, you'll likely only have several weeks left to live—not even a month. Are you sure you wish to proceed without treatment? Does your husband agree to this?" The doctor asks me over the phone. "I'm sure… Yes, he agrees to this as well," I reply. I gaze around the empty room after I end the call, feeling unbearably upset. I used to think the pain was just my recurring gastritis, but it's actually because of a tumor. Sighing, I turn to gaze at the photo on the desk. Silas Huntington, who's 18 in the photo, stares right back at me. Even after all these years, I can still remember the day we took that photo. Snow had dusted our hair white, which made Silas ask whether this counted as us growing old together.