Terminal Illness
Language: en
The doctor told me it was terminal stomach cancer. I had three months left. I decided to die. But before I did, just like any other morning, I knotted Landon Cole’s tie. He leaned against the doorframe, the face his fans had placed on a pedestal a mask of bored irritation. “Amanda, I’m not coming home tonight. Don’t call me.” “Okay,” I said, smiling. “Goodbye, Landon.” He arched an eyebrow, probably finding my compliance unusual. With a short, contemptuous laugh, he slammed the door and was gone. He had no idea that this goodbye was forever. Three hours later, I parked my car on the bridge…