Anton drove through the winding roads outside the city, the streets narrowing into lanes flanked by high bamboo and sporadic wildflowers. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the paper from Celestine clenched in his hand like a lifeline. She's here. She's here.
He reached the small, secluded retreat just as dusk was settling, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds. The building was modest, almost invisible from the road, with creeping vines and a faint hum of life inside. He parked and rushed to the entrance, heart hammering against his ribs, every step carrying the weight of seven days' longing and regret.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of herbs and antiseptic. Nurses moved quietly along the halls, their whispers soft against the pale walls. Anton's eyes scanned until he saw her.
Krystel was sitting by the window, bathed in the last golden streaks of sunlight, her shoulders hunched slightly, hands resting on the blanket draped across her lap. Her hair, a little thinner than before, still caught the light in shades of chestnut and honey. And when she looked up, her eyes—wide, shocked, and impossibly tender—met his.
"You...you weren't supposed to find me." Her voice was a fragile whisper, almost lost beneath the sighing wind.
"I couldn't leave you," Anton said, taking a step closer. Every word tumbled from his chest, rough and desperate. "Krystel, I couldn't. Seven days...was never enough. Not for me. Not for us."
Her lips trembled as a small, sad smile formed. "You...you came anyway. I warned you."
"I don't care about warnings." He knelt beside her, hands brushing against hers. "We had seven days. Now, I want the rest. Every second I can steal with you, I'll take. I don't care what anyone says, or what time has planned for us."
She blinked, tears spilling free, trembling. "Anton...my body...you don't understand..."
"I do," he whispered. "I understand everything. And I'm not going anywhere."
Her head tilted back against the pillow, and she let out a shaky laugh, wet with tears. "You're...insane."
"Maybe," he admitted, pressing his forehead to hers. "But I'm yours, Krystel. And I'm not leaving."
[Flashback – Day Six]
Krystel had sat in his apartment, watching him sleep for the first time after their night together. His breathing was steady, comforting, and she had held back sobs that threatened to break her heart.
I can't let him see me like this. He doesn't deserve the shadow that follows me. Seven days...just seven days of pretending, of laughing, of loving. That's all I can give him. If he knew the truth, he'd run. And I can't bear to lose him before he even knows how much I love him.
She traced his face in the soft light, memorizing every curve, every line. She wanted to leave something behind, a memory, a fragment of her love. And she did—the bracelet, the journal, the moments that now weighed on Anton like a treasure and a curse all at once.
Anton gently helped her sit up on the small bed, steadying her fragile frame. Her breathing was shallow, and every movement seemed to cost her effort. He held her closer, resting his forehead against hers, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against him.
"You're alive," he whispered. "You're here. That's all that matters."
"I was scared," she admitted, voice breaking. "Scared that...that you'd hate me. That you'd blame me for leaving."
"I could never hate you," Anton said fiercely. "Not for loving me, not for protecting me, not for every secret you carried alone. I love you, Krystel. All of you. And I'll fight for every moment left with you."
Tears streamed down her face, soaking into the collar of his shirt. She laughed softly, a sound mingled with despair and relief. "You always did fall for me, didn't you?"
"I did," he admitted, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her lips. "And I always will."
The nurses came by with medication, but Anton refused to leave her side. He sat in the small chair beside the bed, holding her hand as she rested, murmuring half-forgotten words of affection, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing quietly.
"Anton," she whispered in the quiet hours of the night, "thank you...for not letting go."
"I won't," he replied. "Not ever. Even if the world ends tomorrow, I won't."
She closed her eyes, leaning into him, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped. Seven days were gone, yes—but in that fragile bubble of quiet, love had no reckoning, no end, no rules.
[Flashback – Krystel's POV – Day Three]
She had walked through the streets with him, the city lights reflecting in puddles from an earlier rain. Anton had held her hand without hesitation, as if they'd been doing it for years.
Seven days. That's all we have.
And yet, each laugh, each stolen glance, each accidental brush of fingers against skin, made her heart ache with the impossible: love that she couldn't fully claim.
She had wanted to tell him then, the truth of the illness, the ticking clock in her chest. But the warmth of his hand, the security of his smile, had made her stop. She couldn't ruin these days with shadows. She wanted every second of light.
Anton brushed her hair back, cupping her face tenderly. "We'll make new memories," he murmured. "Every day. Even if it's just tomorrow, even if it's just an hour. We'll make it ours."
Krystel's lips quivered into a faint smile. "You always find a way to make me believe in impossible things," she whispered.
"I believe in you," he said, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions. "And I'll keep believing until I can't anymore."
Days passed in a rhythm neither of them expected. He stayed, sometimes sleeping in the small chair beside her bed, sometimes just holding her hand through the night. They talked about everything—books, music, memories from childhood, and dreams they wouldn't have time for.
Anton refused to let sorrow dictate the hours. Instead, he filled them with laughter, gentle teasing, and endless reassurance. And Krystel, fragile but alive, responded with all the warmth she could muster.
[Flashback – Day Five]
She had nearly confessed everything that night, her trembling hands holding his as they sat in the dim light of his apartment.
"Anton..." she had started, voice soft, almost a whisper.
He had smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yes?"
Her lips had parted to speak, but the words died, swallowed by fear and love both. She wanted seven perfect days—not seven days tainted by despair.
I'll tell him when it's too late. He'll have my truth in the end, even if he has to find it on his own.
Back in the retreat, Anton noticed her energy waning one evening. He held her upright, brushing her hair back. "You need rest," he whispered.
"I'm fine," she murmured, weak but smiling. "As long as you're here."
"And I will be," he replied. "Until the end of time, Krystel. I'll be here."
She closed her eyes, clutching his hand. That night, she allowed herself to drift into sleep, knowing he was near, and that for the first time in months, she was not alone.
Weeks passed quietly. Krystel's strength ebbed and flowed, sometimes fleeting, sometimes stubborn. Anton never left, never faltered. He learned to measure love not in days, but in breaths, in stolen smiles, in whispered promises.
On a particularly quiet night, she whispered, "Anton...if I go..."
He pressed his forehead to hers. "You won't. But if you must, I'll carry you in me. Every laugh, every memory, every heartbeat."
She smiled faintly, tears glistening. "Then...thank you. For finding me. For staying."
He held her through the night, and in the stillness, she exhaled one last time, peaceful and unafraid.
Anton didn't let go. Not for a single heartbeat.
And though the world would move on without her, he carried her—her love, her warmth, her bravery—forever.
Seven days had been enough to spark a love that would last a lifetime. And though she had left, the memory of her, and the lessons she gave him, changed Anton forever.
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