Butterfly Lovers

Though I never looked at those houses, I couldn't stop myself from picturing what it might be like—seven days later, Sean arriving to take me away.

But almost immediately, a new message appeared.

It was from Ginny. Photos of her clinging to Sean's arm as they toured scenic spots together.

Her smile was sweet, her eyes brimming with happiness. And though his face remained its usual stoic mask, zooming in revealed the faintest upward curve at the corner of his lips.

Ginny: [Cass, this place is gorgeous. Don't worry, Sean is having so much fun with me.]

My fingers trembled against the screen. That was when I realized that in all the ten years we had lived together, we didn't even have a single photo.

Perhaps it was better this way. When I was gone, he would forget me all the faster.

Me: [That's great. I'm happy that you're happy.]

Pathetic as it was, I still cried myself to sleep that night.

The next morning, someone knocked on my door again.

It was Jordan. This time, he wasn't in his work uniform. He stood there smiling, holding some sandwiches.

"There are still a few households here I haven't settled with," he explained cheerfully. "To make work easier, I moved in next door. I made these myself. Let's share a meal."

I nodded and let him in.

Afterward, while helping me clear the dishes, he noticed the medicine on my table. He picked it up curiously. "What's this for?"

I snatched it back. "Sleepwalking pills. Since you're living next door, better be careful. I might get up at night and mistake you for a watermelon. I've been craving them recently."

He raised his hands quickly. "No, no, please don't. I'm not ripe yet."

Our eyes met, and suddenly we both burst into laughter. I laughed so hard I bent double, tears streaming down my face.

For the next few days, he became my regular meal companion.

It wasn't just about saving money. At the end of my life, I wanted to know what it felt like to be friends with a man other than Sean.

During those days, Sean never stopped sending me messages.

Sean: [Your hair dryer's too old. I bought you a new one, use it when I'm back.]

Sean: [Passed by the mall. Got you a bag. Yours is already worn through. Toss it.]

Sean: [A client gave me some hand cream. They say it works for frostbite. I'll bring it back for you.]

…

Meanwhile, Ginny's social feed was flooded with updates every day—dozens of photos of her and him.

Drinking with clients. Shopping together. Watching fireworks side by side.

Each image stabbed at me, but pain dulled with repetition. Eventually, I almost grew used to it.

At last, the seventh day came. A message from him lit up my screen.

Sean: [Just landed. Heading to the train station now to buy a ticket and pick you up.]

A smile tugged at my lips. I had no intention of going back with him, but I did want to see him one last time.

So I stood, went to a salon, and asked to have my hair done. I wanted to look a little more presentable when I faced him again.

But halfway through, a wave of sickness hit me. I doubled over and suddenly vomited blood.

For reasons I couldn't explain, though my cancer was already advanced, my body seemed to be deteriorating faster than ever in these past few days.

The salon owner panicked. "Miss, call your family right now!"

Instinctively, I dialed Sean's number.

On the other end came a burst of chaotic noise—then a deafening crash.

Ginny's frantic voice cut through the line, "Cass! Sean's been in a car accident! His face is covered in blood! You have to come back now!"