Letters to The Fighter ✔

27. Gone

Dear Peter,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for a number of things. For what happened to Charlie, for leaving you when you needed me the most, and for not telling you any of this until now.

Each day, it became more and more difficult to hide the truth from you. I was dying, and I didn't know how to tell you. Can you blame me? I knew that I had to tell you at some point, and I was going to. Then the accident happened.

It was You and I standing outside a small ice cream shop after one of our interviews, which were just a formality now. We had our backs pressed against the cold surface of your car as we relished in the exquisite night.

"So, how long have you been writing?" You asked, your focus on the ice cream cone in your hands. Now, every time we were together, I wanted to enjoy every second of it. I didn't know how much time I had left with you. All I knew was that I needed to make the most of it.

"Ever since I can remember," I admitted. My throat ached in pain as the words left my mouth. It was difficult for me to even talk those days. The treatment for my cancer almost made me feel even sicker. I felt nauseous after everything I ate, and even moving a muscle seemed to be too exhausting.

A thought then occurred to me and I turned to my right to face you.

"You should read my book."

"Really? I didn't know you actually wrote a book," You replied. It sounded like you were kind of impressed. "I don't know, I'm not much of a reader. Maybe one day."

No, no, no. I didn't know how to tell you that we couldn't save anything for 'one day' anymore. My future was so uncertain, and I couldn't keep hiding this from you.

"Peter," I whispered, staring at the ice cream in my hands. The cone was stale and the ice cream began to melt, spilling off of the edges and onto the ground.

That night, we talked and talked about our lives. Each day, I learned something new about you. And now that you had opened up to me, I knew more about your parents, about Daisy, and about you. The you that I'd wanted to know all along.

"Yeah?" You turned to me, your nose stained with vanilla ice cream. I laughed at the sight, bringing my thumb up to brush it off. You chuckled and then frowned when your gaze fell onto my hands, your eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"Lucy," you took a napkin and wrapped it around my hands, "Why aren't you eating? Have you been feeling alright? You look weak." Your hand then moved to my forehead, checking my temperature.

The compassion in your voice and eyes made me weak in my knees. How was I supposed to say this, Peter? What was the easiest way to tell you that I had maybe a year left to live? Would you want to spend that year with me, or get closure now when you had the chance?

"Actually," I sighed, trying to suppress my tears, "There's something you need to know."

I was trying to be strong, I promise. It was just difficult knowing that what I was about to tell you would hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted to do. I took your hand in mine, leading us over to a bench nearby. Once we sat down, you finally looked towards me, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"Are you alright?" You asked, your voice shaky. Your hands flew to my cheeks as you cupped my face, searching my eyes for an answer. I bit my lip to refrain from crying, and when my lips parted to speak, your phone began to ring. It was the second time. The first time was a few minutes earlier and you decided to ignore it because it was an unknown number, and this time it was the same number calling.