"I would rather die loving you than live a life without ever having tried."
— Atticus

⸻

I fainted for the first time in the recording studio.
No sound.
No warning.
Just a blink — and the world went dark.
I remember the piano stopping mid-note,
as if time itself gave up on continuing.

Gawin didn't know.
He was in the booth, layering cello over the final bridge.
Still smiling, still wearing his headphones,
still repeating the same line three, four times
to find the perfect take.

And me...
I collapsed.
Head against the studio wall.
Blood staining the collar of my shirt.
The scent of iron bleeding into the bass.

Kevin was the one who took me to the hospital.

My best friend.
The only one who ever knew I loved Gawin with all of me.
The only one who'd seen the petals I kept in a rusted tin box.
The only one who'd stayed with me
on nights I curled up, coughing until I couldn't breathe —
still whispering Gawin's name
like a broken lyric stuck in repeat.

"Why don't you just tell him?" Kevin asked,
after the doctor explained the flowers had reached my windpipe.
"What if... he actually—"

I shook my head.

I knew the rules of this illness:
To be cured, the one you love has to love you back.
Truly. Deeply.
No pity. No guilt. No regret dressed as affection.

I looked at Kevin. Gently. Firmly.

"I don't need him to love me just so I can live."
"I only want to keep loving Gawin."

I didn't want Gawin to love me out of obligation.
I didn't want him at my bedside because he felt bad.
I didn't want his love to be the antidote.

I wanted it to be a love song.

And if he never sang for me —
that was okay too.
I just wanted to go,
with his music still echoing in my chest.

Like a love song that was never mine,
but one I hummed all my life anyway.

⸻

Gawin found out a few days later.
He showed up at the hospital
while I was hooked to an IV, pale and weak.

He stood by the door.
Hair messy.
Black coat.
Hands trembling.

He sat beside me.
Didn't say a word for ten minutes.

Just stared at me,
eyes searching for some excuse to believe
this was just fatigue,
just a rough day at work,
nothing serious.

Then he started crying.

No sobs.
No sound.
Just tears —
falling onto the back of my hand
like the final rest note
in a very long, very sad song.

"Why didn't you tell me...?"
"If only..."
"If I could just..."

I reached for his hand.

For the first time.
Maybe the last.

And I smiled.
Like someone hearing an old song they thought they'd forgotten.

"You didn't do anything wrong."
"I love you. Willingly."
"And love... isn't a debt."

He cried harder after that.
Head resting beside mine on the edge of the bed.
I don't know for how long.

I didn't wipe his tears.
I didn't have the strength.
I just lay there,
listening to the sound of his heartbeat
— close to mine,
but never quite in sync.

Like two instruments
that could never harmonize.

⸻

After he left, Kevin came back into the room.

"You're sure about this?"

I nodded.

I had lived like background music in all of Gawin's love songs.
Loved him without being named.

I used to dream of surviving.
Of a future where he turned around,
took my hand,
and called me something more than a manager, more than a dear friend.

But not anymore.

Not because I stopped loving him.
But because I loved him too much
to keep holding on.

Some people can only be loved
by learning to let go of them quietly.

If there is such thing as a beautiful death,
then it must be this —
to die with the sound of his voice in my lungs.

No one needs to know.
No one has to grieve.

Just one song.
Even if it's not mine.

⸻

The doctors gave me two options.

Option one: surgery.
Cut out the root-bound petals.
Slice through the vines winding around my lungs,
rip out the mass growing against my throat.

I'd live.
But I'd forget.

Forget who I loved.
Forget why his voice made me cough blood at midnight.
Forget the ache.
Forget... who I was.

No memory of those eyes.
No trace of how that smile used to hurt.
No idea why his songs made me cry.

No knowledge
of why I ever loved him.

Option two:
Do nothing.

Let the flowers bloom.
And die — like a love song with no ending.

⸻

They say that if the one you love
loves you back,
the flowers disappear.

All it takes is one look.
One truth.
One gentle hand.

I used to believe that.
Used to hope.
Used to think if I stayed long enough,
did well enough,
remained quiet enough —

One day, he'd turn and say:
"I love you."

But I'm tired.

Not of loving him.
But of loving in silence.

⸻

I don't want to forget.
I don't want to live
if it means trading away the memory of him.

I would rather die
with his name folded into my chest
than live not knowing why I cried
every time he sang.

I don't blame him.
He doesn't love me —
and he was never supposed to.

He owes me nothing.

Love isn't a currency.
It's not meant to be earned,
or returned.

I'm just...
sad.

Because if I have to die,
I wish I could be the last love song
he ever wrote.

No title.
No footnote.
Just—

a little of me
left behind
in the lyrics he never knew were mine.

⸻

I used to want him to love me.

But now—
I just hope he lives well.
Keeps singing.
And never knows how deeply this hurt.

⸻

[Lyric excerpt — untitled (from Gawin's unreleased song)]
If you love me, let me live.
But if you don't—
Then let me die quietly,
With your song in my chest.

⸻