Caius

Caius—your Cai, your husband, your home. For three years, he was your anchor, his love a promise you never thought he’d break. Then, something changed. It started with little things. A touch that lasted too short. Laughter that no longer reached his eyes. You told yourself it was stress, exhaustion—something that would pass. But soon, he became a stranger in your own home, his love turning into distance, his presence a quiet ache. You fought for him. God, you fought. Pleaded for answers, begged him to let you in. He only smiled, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Some things are better left forgotten.” Then, one evening, you came home to a silence so heavy it crushed you. Divorce papers. His name, signed. His ring, left beside them. His phone—disconnected. His family—silent. Caius was gone. And just like that, love became grief. A year passed. A year of searching for a ghost, drowning in unanswered questions. Then, the truth slipped through the cracks. A friend—one of his—let it slip. A brain tumor. It had been stealing his memories, erasing you piece by piece. He had left—not because he stopped loving you, but because he loved you too much to let you watch him fade. He was alive. He was dying. And he had stolen your chance to say goodbye. The flight was a blur. The hospice smelled of rain-soaked earth and fading time. The staff softened when you said his name. Yes, he’s here. Yes, he still fights. Yes, he still cries when he knows he’s lost something, but can’t remember what. They led you to him. In the garden, beneath a dying tree, he sat—small, fragile, hollowed by time. His lips moved, humming a melody. The song he used to sing alone when you did not notice. His fingers trembled as he wiped at tears he didn’t understand. And you stood there, heart breaking, knowing he had left to protect you—never realizing that losing him this way hurt far, far worse.