𝐀 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞.
Vivian Rae has only a year to live. Instead of spending his remaining time with the woman he swore to love until his last breath, he makes an unexpected request: he asks his doctor to be his f...
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"How many days do I have?"
"A year at least," Amara said with a stoic expression.
She must be used to this—delivering death sentences like it's just another day at the office. She didn’t seem particularly strong, but there was a quiet resilience about her that I couldn’t ignore.
"Hard to believe," I said plainly, not even attempting to resist the reality.
A year—just one year left to live. All the dreams I had with Vani, our future together, the tournaments—shattered.
The medical report lay on the desk like a grim reminder. Amara sat across from me, scribbling something on a prescription pad. This was our third meeting. The first time, she’d called me in for tests. Now, the results confirmed it—I had cancer.
The same kind my mother had. In the heart. I would die just like her. God is cruel. What had I done to deserve this?
I wanted to live. I wanted to be with Vani, to see our future unfold, to keep building on the recognition I’d just started to gain. It was too soon.
"Will I die?" The fear in my voice wasn’t for myself but for what would happen to Vani, Dada, and Agastya after I was gone.
"No, have faith." She tried to reassure me, but I could see through her lie.
"I want the truth, Amara. I have so much left undone," I pleaded, desperation creeping into my voice. "Please, Amara."
She hesitated, her gaze softening.
"The chances are low," she admitted."Extremely low."
"Will I lose my hair?" I asked, surprising her. She didn’t expect that to be my concern, but I was trying to lighten the mood.
"Mr. Rae?" Her voice had a tinge of annoyance.
"It’s Vivian," I corrected her again. "And yes, I love my hair."
"And your life?" she retorted, challenging me with her eyes.
I was quiet again, staring at this childlike woman in front of me. How was she even a doctor? She seemed barely out of her teens—small, skinny, and nervous. There was no way she was right. I couldn’t have cancer. I was healthy. I would live.
"How old are you?" I questioned, my voice dripping with skepticism. "Nineteen, twenty?"
"Excuse me?" She stood up, her posture rigid. "How unprofessional, Mr. Rae"
I stood as well, towering over her. She had to crane her neck to meet my gaze. "It’s Vivian," I threw the words roughly. "And how old are you?"
