Diagnosed With Cancer, I Got My True Mate

For days, Natalie doesn't come home. I'm scrolling through posts on my phone, and Brandon's updates keep popping up like a punch to the gut. Natalie helping him at the library. Natalie bringing him breakfast. Natalie bending down to tie his damn shoelaces. In every photo, her eyes are softer than they ever are with me. I sit there, staring, and start packing my stuff. I don't have much-a few changes of clothes, a beat-up pair of sneakers, and a photo album stuffed with sneaky shots of her. Her profile while she's buried in a book, her back as she cooks, her brows slightly furrowed in sleep. That's all I've got left. When Natalie walks in, I'm zipping up the last box. "What're you packing for?" she asks, her voice cool, distant. "Just tossing out what I don't need," I mumble, keeping my head down so she doesn't see my eyes, red and raw. She hums, pouring herself a glass of water. "Good call. You said this place feels off, right? I bought a villa. We can move in soon." She pauses, then adds, "Wanna check it out today?" My fingers falter, but I nod. One last look at her new life before I'm gone. The villa's in a gated community, all shady trees and quiet, like it's cut off from the world. We're barely at the door when Brandon shows up, rocking a pale yellow tee, grinning like he owns the place. "Hey, you made it! Sam, my place is right next door. Neighbors, huh? Look out for each other!" He drags us over to tour his villa, all eager. But when he swings the door open, I freeze. Beige sofa, wood dining table, even the plants on the balcony-identical to what I just saw in Natalie's place. "Natalie and I picked out the furniture together," Brandon says, flashing that sunny grin. "Crazy how our tastes match, right? Looks like one big house." He winks. "My buddies say if we knocked down the wall between 'em, it'd be seamless. One perfect den." Natalie, standing off to the side, actually smiles. "He's got a design degree. Good eye." My heart stings, sharp and relentless. Yeah, once I'm out of the picture, they'll make it official. Knock down that wall, make it one. By noon, Brandon suggests we grab lunch. He picks a fancy steakhouse, the menu all in some foreign script-Favalon, I guess. He hands it to me first, and my hands shake as I take it. I can't read a single word. Natalie notices me floundering and reaches over. "I'll order." Brandon props his chin in his hand, smirking. "Natalie, don't just get my favorites. Pick something for Sam, too." She looks at me. "What do you want?" I drop my gaze. She knows Brandon's go-to order by heart, but after all these years of us leaning on each other, she doesn't even know what I like to eat. "Whatever," I mutter. When the food comes, I fumble with the knife and fork, clumsy as hell, and knock over my plate. Sauce splashes on the tablecloth, and I feel the side-eyes from nearby tables. I stand, flustered, heading for the bathroom to clean up, but I catch the whispers behind me. "Where'd this hick come from? Never been to a nice place before?" "Embarrassing. Standing next to those two, he looks like some caveman." In the bathroom, I scrub the grease off my hands under the faucet, staring at the wolf in the mirror-pale, eyes bloodshot, a pathetic clown. Natalie and I? We're worlds apart now. Then a scream cuts through the air. "Fire!" My blood runs cold, and I bolt out, my only thought to find Natalie. But when I shove through the panicking crowd to our table, it's empty. She's already gone-with Brandon. The mob pushes me around, and I hit the floor hard. Someone stomps on my hand, pain shooting through me like lightning. By the time I stumble outside, I see Natalie helping Brandon into a car, urgency in her voice. "To the healer's, now!" Brandon leans on her shoulder, murmuring, "Sam's still in there." Natalie glances back at the chaotic restaurant. "The bathroom's on the first floor. He's probably out already." She hesitates. "Your leg's the priority. Let's go." The car door slams, and they're gone. I stand there, my hand throbbing, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I drag myself to a healer, get my hand patched up, and book a ticket out of town. That night, I crash hard and dream of the past. Sixteen-year-old Natalie at the river, asking why I saved her. Nineteen-year-old Natalie, stubbornly waiting up for me at our tiny table. Twenty-two-year-old Natalie, holding me tight, promising, "Sam, I'll make sure you live a good life." Twenty-four-year-old Natalie, with a new mate, no longer needing me. In the dream, I'm smiling, but tears stream down my face. When I wake, Natalie's standing by my bed, holding my phone. "You bought a ticket?" Her voice is ice-cold. "Where are you going?"