The Last Wave (ONESHOT AU)

My Love (From Rowan's Perspective)

The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the waves that kissed the shore of our small coastal town. I remember the first time I met Mira, a sunbeam in a world often cloaked in clouds. Her laughter danced on the air like the call of seagulls overhead, a melody that made the ordinary feel extraordinary. We were kids, inseparable, building castles in the sand, and chasing the waves as they crested and crashed. It was during one of those carefree summer afternoons that I first realized I was in love with her. As we raced toward the ocean, I glanced back to see her hair dancing in the wind, a cascade of golden curls that sparkled like the sea itself, and my heart surged with an overwhelming sense of belonging.

As we grew, so did the depth of our connection. Those carefree days transformed into nights filled with whispered dreams under a blanket of stars. Mira's eyes sparkled like the ocean's surface, full of life and hope. We would lay on the beach, watching the stars appear, trying to count them as they flickered to life against the velvety darkness. "The sea is endless, just like our dreams, Rowan," she would say, her voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the universe. Little did we know how cruel fate could be.

Our love blossomed with the seasons, vibrant and wild, but it was one fateful summer that changed everything. I remember the day Mira first complained of feeling unwell. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the ocean sparkled like a million diamonds, but her laughter was tinged with a faint weariness. "I'm just tired," she shrugged, brushing it off with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. I dismissed it as stress from school, convinced she'd bounce back in no time. How naive I was.

Days turned into weeks, and the complaints became harder to ignore. Mira would come to our favorite spot on the beach, leaning against the rocky outcropping, her once-vibrant energy waning. The ocean breeze no longer invigorated her; instead, it seemed to drain her further. Each time I touched her hand, I could feel the heat fading, her skin becoming cool and delicate, as fragile as the sea glass we would collect.

When the diagnosis came, it felt as if the very air had been sucked from my lungs.

"Rare,"

the doctor had said, his voice distant and hollow, like a wave retreating into the depths.

"Incurable."

The word echoed in my mind, wrapping around my heart like a vice. I could see the fear in Mira's eyes, mirrored in my own, and I felt the world tilt beneath me. The vibrant girl who had once radiated joy was now a mere shadow, a flickering candle slowly being snuffed out by an unforgiving wind.

Each day became a battle against an invisible enemy. I watched helplessly as she struggled to get out of bed, the energy that once defined her now replaced by a hollow shell. I'd sit by her side, holding her hand, feeling the warmth slip away like sand through my fingers. "We'll fight this together," I promised, though deep down, I knew the truth was a crueler twist of fate. I immersed myself in researching her condition, filling my nights with medical journals and forums, desperately clinging to the hope of a miracle, all while knowing that hope was growing thinner.

Our evenings shifted from wild dreams of travel and laughter to quiet moments filled with the scent of saltwater and the soft rustle of the breeze. We would sit on our favorite rock, overlooking the waves, the sun dipping low, casting a warm glow on our faces. I would tell her stories of adventures we'd take one day—climbing mountains, sailing across the sea, finding hidden treasures on distant shores. I tried to spark a flicker of joy in her eyes, to remind her of the dreams we had built together. Mira would smile weakly, her gaze always drifting toward the horizon, as if searching for answers in the depths of the ocean.