Too Late For Love

The twisting pain in my stomach was like countless burning needles, densely piercing through my internal organs; every breath I took tore at me with excruciating agony. I curled up on the creaking old sofa in my rented room, the mobile phone screen glaring harshly, flooded with news of Simon Shawn and Vivian Lincoln's grand wedding sweeping across the entire internet. The white wedding dress made Vivian's skin appear more radiant than snow; she linked arms with Simon Shawn, her smile blooming like a flower. In the photo, the two of them were a perfect match—like a fairy tale's ending. The metallic taste rising in my throat made me cough violently; the blood seeping through my fingers stained my faded jeans like desolate red plum blossoms. Half a bottle of chemotherapy drugs lay beside me, the name on the label blurred beyond recognition, much like the fading past I shared with Simon Shawn. The door was suddenly kicked open with brutal force, and Simon Shawn stood in the backlight, redolent of champagne and roses, his bespoke suit immaculate, a white rose boutonniere pinned to his chest—the very flower Vivian Lincoln cherished most. "Stop the treatment." His voice held not a trace of warmth, like icicles hanging from the eaves in the dead of winter, striking at the heart with a painful chill. I slowly raised my eyes to meet his; three years of love, more than seven hundred days and nights of entanglement—yet in his eyes remained only a piercing indifference, as if I were but a speck of dust blemishing the course of his life. A cheque was harshly thrown onto the coffee table before me. The number burned a vivid red, so fiercely it seemed to scorch my very retina. "Take the money, and vanish forever." His leather shoe crushed the scattered pills beneath it, the shattering sound piercing and sharp. "Do not ever appear before Vivian and me again; do not tarnish our happiness." I neither protested nor wept; I only slowly lifted that light yet heavy-as-a-thousand-pounds cheque with trembling fingers. The despair of advanced stomach cancer had long since drained all my strength; love and hate had become luxuries far beyond my grasp. To live was nothing but endless torment day after day. When I signed to forsake treatment, my hand would not cease trembling—not out of reluctance, but because of the raging, upheaving pain in my stomach that threatened to swallow me whole. Simon Shawn's bodyguards flanked me on either side as they escorted me from the hospital. Behind me, the chemotherapy machines continued their low, droning hum—like a mournful requiem for a love that had quietly died. As I passed out through the hospital gates, an icy wind swept into my collar. I shivered involuntarily, yet a strange sense of relief bloomed suddenly within my heart. I did not go to the bank to cash the cheque. Instead, I drifted to the Welfare Institute on the outskirts—the very place where I had spent my childhood, where the Director had once given me the only warmth I ever knew. When the Director took the donation agreement, her eyes welled with tears. She gripped my hand, her rough palm warm: "Wendy, have you encountered some difficulty? This is quite a large sum." I merely smiled faintly, and as I withdrew my hand, I caught sight of the puncture marks left on my wrist by the chemotherapy needles. I whispered, "Helping these children is far better than letting money rot unused in my hands." The children at the Welfare Institute were playing in the yard when a little girl, her hair tied in twin buns, ran over shyly and tugged at the hem of my coat. "Young lady," she murmured timidly, "you are so beautiful. Are you an angel?" I knelt down, softening my voice as I gently stroked her head. "I am not an angel, but I hope you all grow up happy and joyful," I said. Back in the rented room, I drew the curtains tightly shut and never opened them again. The days slipped by slowly, swallowed in endless pain and hunger. I refused all treatment; when the pain became unbearable, I bit down hard on a towel and forced myself to endure. When hunger gnawed at me, I sipped warm water to quell the pangs. My weight dropped at a painfully visible speed. Occasionally, I would unearth an old photo album buried at the bottom of a trunk. Inside, nestled within yellowed pages, were pictures of Simon Shawn and me. In the photos, his gaze was tender as he bent his head to brush the stray hairs from my forehead. That was the summer three years ago, by the sea. He vowed to marry me, to make me the happiest woman in the world. But now, all those promises belong to another. Madam Clark downstairs would sometimes knock at my door, bringing a bowl of warm porridge or a few steamed buns. She knew I was ill but had no notion of how desperately sick I had become. I always declined gently, unwilling to burden anyone, nor to expose the miserable, shattered figure I had become. Three months on, I had wasted to a skeleton. The loose cotton shirt draped over me like an empty hanger, swaying with every gust of wind.