Love is A Six Letter Word

3. Telling him.

I watched as Liam's name flashed up on the screen, for the seventh time.

Avoiding him is killing me.

I pick up the phone, answering it.

"Your dad told me. I'm coming over. I love you." He states down the phone before hanging up

.

I'm so angry, I can't believe my father invaded my privacy like that, it was my thing to tell Liam, when I wanted to, when I decided to, when I was ready to. On my terms.

No, this isn't fucking fair.

It's my shit to tell, not my dads. He wouldn't of told Liam in the way I wanted Liam to find out, I had a plan, and now Liam knows and I haven't even been able to soften the blow.

Obviously, he had to find out, but in my way, how I wanted to tell him, not like this. I feel like every last ounce of my independence, and my rights to a voice, privacy and time, time to get my head around this, have been ripped away from me, because I'm 'ill' and I must be treated like a baby.

I throw my body down onto my bed, my face in my pillow, lying there in a comfortable silence, so silent that I can forget for a while, forget about the impending doom, the permanent black cloud above my head, the black cloud that won't go away until, well until I go away too.

I guess there's a small chance that the chemo will work, and that I'll survive, and live on until I'm an old lady, with Liam. But I don't want to count on it, I don't want to get my hopes up.

After all, it's not dependable, not like Liam. Unlike chemo, Liam is theory dependable man I've ever met, and he doesn't deserve to have his heart ripped out like this. It isn't fair, I can't destroy him, there is too many people that are going to get hurt in the wake of Tornado Aria.

I led on my bed, face down in the pillow for a little while, I must've fallen asleep as the next thing I know, there's a dip on Liam's side of the bed and his large hands are taking a hold of my hips, pulling my small frame against his large one, spooning me and wrapping his arms around me, resting his head just behind mine, his lips on my shoulder.

''I'm here Aria, I'll always be here.'' He whispers, his hot breath against my skin, although the heat from his breath has no match on the burningly hot tears prickling in my eyes and sliding down my cheeks, stinging as the roll towards my chin. I swallow softly, making sure Liam doesn't clock that I'm awake; I'm not ready to have the dreaded conversation yet.

Liam's warm, left hand, moves to my shoulder, moving from the top of my shoulder to my wrist, over and over, warming up the bare skin.

''It'll all be okay, I'll make sure Ari.'' He whispers again, pecking the skin behind my ear with his slightly chapped lips, oh those lips that I'll never be able to get my fill of. More painfully hot tears bubble and pour from my eyes.

''I'll be here, every step of the way, I promise Princess.'' Every thoughtful word spilling from Liam's mouth brakes my heart more and more than the last, the tears fall from my eyes like a never ending waterfall of pain, heartbreak and impending doom.

I begin thinking about his life without me, what if he never gets over me? And stays alone for the next sixty years, maybe more. What if he never experiences marriage, parenthood, grand-parenthood, all of those beautiful things that come hand in hand with growing old with someone you love. What if he just stays alone, lonely and heartbroken, crying himself to sleep and cuddling a pillow drenched in my perfume? Never finding happiness, forever in the shadow of my death.

On the other hand, he might get over me, and grow to love someone else more than he ever loved or possibly could love me, and then he grows to forget about me. Continuing his life without me, with another woman, marrying her, having children with her, growing old with her, when he should be doing that with me. Maybe he'll think of me, briefly on the anniversary of my death, or on my birthday, but then push every last memory and thought of me to the back of his mind, until the next year, and then the year after that.

I know that both of these scenarios are possible, and I can't decide which I'd prefer, because they're both equally as gut wrenchingly painful.