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Maeve Mullins hated being watched.
It wasn’t a new hatred. She’d hated it when teachers watched her struggle through presentations in school. She’d hated it when doctors watched her scans appear on glowing screens. She’d hated it most of all when her family watched her with that careful, fragile expression people reserved for glass ornaments and dying girls. Now she hated it because there was a stranger standing in the doorway of her room. “Maeve Mullins?” the woman asked.
Maeve looked up from her book. The woman was younger than she’d expected. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair tied back neatly, sharp eyes softened by an uncertain smile. “You must be Sophia Crane.” Sophia stepped inside.
“That’s me.” Maeve looked her over. The agency had sent countless caregivers over the past year. Most stayed a few weeks before transferring. Some couldn’t handle the emotional weight. Others treated Maeve like she was already gone. Sophia looked different. Not better. Just different.
“You’re staring,” Maeve said.
Sophia blinked. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” To Maeve’s surprise, Sophia laughed.
The sound was warm. Genuine. For the first time in months, Maeve found herself fighting back a smile.
Sophia quickly discovered that caring for Maeve Mullins was unlike any assignment she’d ever taken. For one thing, Maeve refused to behave like a terminal patient. She snuck out onto the roof when she wasn’t supposed to. She argued with doctors. She ordered ridiculous amounts of takeaway food despite barely being able to finish half of it. She watched terrible reality television while pretending to hate every second. Most of all, she joked. Constantly. Humor was her armour. The first week, Sophia caught her sitting on the kitchen counter eating ice cream straight from the tub. “You’re supposed to be resting.” Maeve pointed her spoon.
“You’re supposed to be minding your own business.”
“I’m literally paid to mind your business.”
Maeve considered that. “Fair point.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. Somehow they ended up sharing the ice cream.
Weeks passed. Then months. The prognosis never changed. Terminal. Progressive. Incurable. The doctors used clinical language. Maeve called it what it was. An expiration date. Sophia hated hearing her say that. One rainy evening they sat on the porch wrapped in blankets. The sky was gray. The world smelled like wet earth. Maeve watched the rain. “You know what the worst part is?”
Sophia glanced at her. “What?”
“Everyone lies.”
“About what?”
Maeve’s smile was small. “They say things like ‘stay positive’ or ‘you’ll beat this.’” She looked down. “But they don’t believe it.”
Sophia was quiet. Neither of them believed it. The treatment options had run out months ago. The statistics were brutal. The disease always won. Eventually. Maeve swallowed. “I wish people would just tell the truth.”
Sophia’s voice was gentle. “What truth?”
Maeve looked at her. For a moment she looked impossibly young. Scared. Tired. “The truth that I’m dying.” The words settled between them. Heavy. Real.
Sophia reached for her hand. Maeve froze. Neither of them pulled away. “You are,” Sophia whispered.
Maeve nodded. A tear escaped before she could stop it.
Sophia squeezed her fingers. “And it isn’t fair.”
Something inside Maeve cracked. Not completely. Just enough. She cried quietly while rain tapped against the roof. Sophia stayed beside her until the storm ended.
The moment Sophia realized she was in trouble happened in a grocery store. It was absurd. There should have been violins. Lightning. Something dramatic. Instead Maeve was arguing passionately about cereal. “This one is superior.”
“It tastes like cardboard.”
“You have no culture.”
“You think sugar is a personality trait.” Maeve gasped dramatically.
Sophia laughed. And suddenly she couldn’t stop. Because Maeve was laughing too. Because her eyes lit up when she smiled. Because being near her felt effortless. Dangerously effortless. Sophia felt her heart stumble.
Oh.
Oh no.
She tried ignoring it. That strategy lasted three days. Then Maeve fell asleep on the couch during a movie. Her head slipped onto Sophia’s shoulder. Sophia didn’t move for two hours. She barely breathed. Every instinct screamed at her to pull away. To remember professional boundaries. To remember reality. Instead she sat there listening to Maeve’s breathing. Counting every second. Treasuring every second. Because time felt precious around Maeve. Because time was running out.
Maeve figured it out before Sophia said a word. Of course she did. Maeve noticed everything. They were sitting in the garden. The roses were beginning to bloom. Sophia was reading. Maeve was pretending to read. “You like me.”
Sophia nearly dropped her book. “What?”
Maeve smirked. “You heard me.”
“No.”
“Terrible lie.”
Sophia groaned. Maeve laughed. Then the laughter faded. The teasing disappeared. And suddenly neither of them was joking.
“You do,” Maeve said softly.
Sophia stared at the ground. “Maybe.”
Maeve’s expression changed. The realization hit her all at once. Not amusement. Not victory. Something gentler. Something terrified. “Oh.”
Sophia finally looked at her. Neither spoke. Neither moved. The silence stretched.
“I shouldn’t,” Sophia said.
Maeve nodded. “I know.”
“It isn’t fair to you.”
“I know.”
Sophia laughed bitterly. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” Maeve looked away. Toward the horizon. Toward a future she wasn’t supposed to have.
“I have an expiration date.”
Sophia’s heart broke. “Don’t.”
“It’s reality.”
“No.”
Maeve frowned. “No?”
“You are not a carton of milk, Maeve.” That startled a laugh from her. Sophia continued. “You are a person.”
Maeve’s smile faded. “And people leave.” The words came out fragile. Raw. Sophia understood then. Maeve wasn’t afraid of dying. Not really. She was afraid of being loved first. Because loss hurt more when someone stayed long enough to matter. Sophia reached for her hand. Just like the night of the storm. This time Maeve grabbed it immediately. Holding tight. As though letting go would hurt. Maybe it would. “I like you too,” Maeve admitted. Sophia closed her eyes. The confession should have felt wonderful. Instead it felt heartbreaking. Because both of them knew exactly how the story was supposed to end.
They fell in love anyway. Maybe that was the tragedy. Or maybe it was the miracle. Sophia learned every detail about Maeve. The way she sang badly while cooking. The way she stole blankets. The way she always cried during sad movies despite insisting she wouldn’t. Maeve learned Sophia’s habits too. The coffee addiction. The nervous fidgeting. The way she smiled when she thought nobody was looking. They built something beautiful. Small. Fragile. Real. And all the while the clock kept ticking.
The disease progressed. Slowly at first. Then faster. Maeve became weaker. Hospital visits increased. Good days became rare. Sophia never left. She stayed through every appointment. Every setback. Every terrifying night. One evening Maeve woke in a hospital bed to find Sophia asleep beside her. Her hand was still wrapped around Maeve’s. Maeve stared at her. Memorizing her. Because there was a chance this might be all they got. Months. Not years. Months. The thought hurt more than the illness ever had. Sophia stirred. Opened her eyes. Immediately smiled.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
Maeve nodded. Then shook her head. Then laughed weakly.
“Not really.”
Sophia squeezed her hand. “I’m here.” Two simple words. Maeve nearly cried.
The experimental treatment appeared unexpectedly. A last resort. A long shot. A clinical trial with impossible odds. The doctors weren’t optimistic. Neither was Maeve. But Sophia saw something she hadn’t seen in months. Hope. Tiny. Fragile. Dangerous. Hope. “What if it works?” Sophia asked.
Maeve laughed. “What if I win the lottery?”
“What if?”
Maeve stared at her. Really stared. And for the first time allowed herself to imagine it. Tomorrow. Next year. A future. A life. With Sophia. The possibility terrified her more than death. Because hope could be taken away. Hope could hurt. Still…
“What if?” she whispered.
The treatment was brutal. Weeks became months. Side effects hit hard. There were moments when Maeve wanted to quit. Moments when Sophia wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. But they kept going. Together. One step. One day. One impossible hope at a time. Then came the scans. The waiting. The longest week of their lives. Maeve sat beside Sophia in the doctor’s office. Hands trembling. Heart racing. The doctor entered. Smiling.
Actually smiling.
Maeve’s stomach dropped. She’d forgotten doctors could do that. The doctor sat down. Opened the file. Looked at both of them. “The treatment is working.”
Silence.
Total silence.
Maeve blinked. “What?”
The doctor smiled wider. “The tumors are shrinking.”
Sophia stopped breathing.
Maeve stared.
Unable to process the words. The doctor continued speaking. Statistics. Progress. Recovery projections. Maeve heard none of it. Because Sophia was crying. Actually crying. Tears running down her face. And suddenly Maeve was crying too. Laughing and crying all at once. The impossible had happened. Not a cure. Not yet. But a future. A real future. The expiration date had disappeared.
Six months later they stood on the same porch where they’d once watched the rain. The sky was clear. Golden. Beautiful. Maeve leaned against the railing. Healthier. Stronger. Alive. Sophia wrapped her arms around her waist. Resting her chin on Maeve’s shoulder. For a while neither spoke. They simply watched the sunset. The ordinary miracle of another day ending. Another day they got to share. Maeve finally smiled. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I spent so long thinking I was running out of tomorrows.”
Sophia kissed her temple. “And now?”
Maeve looked toward the horizon. Toward a future she’d never expected to reach. Now she could see years stretching ahead. Messy years. Complicated years. Beautiful years. Years filled with arguments over cereal and stolen blankets and terrible television shows. Years filled with Sophia. Maeve turned in her arms. Pressed their foreheads together. “Now I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
Sophia smiled. Then kissed her. Slowly. Tenderly. Like they had all the time in the world. For the first time, maybe they did.