I’m Dying.
Some things are harder to talk about than death. — A Story in 100 words
Some things are harder to talk about than death. — A story in 100 words.
This wasn’t a new diagnosis. I’ve had this as long as I can remember. I only talked about it in passing …and when I needed to.
This was my burden, not anyone else’s. Least of all hers.
But I knew this was gonna kill me one day — it had to.
I’d given up drugs— the illegal ones anyway. It’s just the legal ones now.
But I know we’re not in love. I might be, but she isn’t …probably never will be. Mentioning it now seems premature.
The dying part.
The love part? We’ll never discuss.
What’re three more months anyway?