Page 81 of Until Forever Falls

Turns out, it was there before Beckett died. Lurking. Waiting. Hiding behind every dizzy spell, every misdiagnosis the doctors gave me. And I believed them—just like I once believed in forever, in us, in the foolish idea that life moved forward like it’s supposed to. But it doesn’t. It stops when you least expect it, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

I didn’t know how to tell you, Dylan. How the fuck was I supposed to hand youmoregrief when you were already drowning in it?

So, I fed myself a pretty lie, let it take root in my mind—a parasite gorging itself on every doubt until I mistook it for certainty.That hating me would be easier than mourning me too.That if I burned every bridge between us, made you despise me enough, it would cauterize the wound before it could bleed.

It would hurt less when I was gone.

I let it fester until it felt like the only way forward, because if someone had to swing the scythe, it was damn well going to be me.

But every day since, I’ve been eaten alive by the regret of how I let it all fall apart. I should’ve torn myself open, bled the truth into your hands, and let you decide whether to hold on or walk away. But I was terrified of how saying it out loud would make it real, turning my worst fear into something I couldn’t take back.

And yet, I’m still here. Barely. Some days, it feels like my body is more poison than blood. Chemo is war—one I’m not sure I’m winning. Some nights, I swear I can feel myself dissolving. But when it gets bad, when I’m too sick to move, too weak to fight, there’s one thing that keeps me breathing.

You.

The first night I met you, something in my chest came unstitched. I’d spent my entire life moving through the world in grayscale, and then there you were—color, brightening everything I thought I knew. I didn’t just see you. I recognized you, like some part of me had beenwaitingfor the moment our worlds would collide.

You were the best thing this life ever gave me. You still are. Always will be. If I leave this world, I need you to know—I didn’t just love you. I was created for you. Every breath, every beat of my heart, is yours in a way that defies choice or reason. And if there’s anything after this, beyond the pain, I’ll tear through eternity to find you until forever is ours again.

I swore on everything I had that I wouldn’t leave you alone. And then, when it mattered most, I did exactly that. A betrayal disguised as love. And now, I can’t unmake the empty space I left behind. But God, Dylan, I would carve out my own ribs to go back and keep that promise.

Still, I hope you remember the good. Even if it’s tangled up in everything I ruined. The way we laughed until we couldn’t breathe, the late night drives with the whole world rushing past us, like we could outrun everything waiting for us back home. The outdoors you swore you’d never love, and yet—somehow, you did. You painted it, breathed life into it, poured pieces of yourself into every canvas until the world made sense through your hands.

Time can fade pigment, crack edges, turn masterpieces to dust, but it will never erase you.

And I wouldn’t trade that for second. Not for time, not for a cure, not for salvation itself. Because you gave me something no one else ever has. A reason to stay, to fight, to love.A reason to live. Even when it meant losing.

By the time you read this, it could be too late. But I want you to know—I’m fighting. Every second of every day, I’m clawing against the inevitable because I believe in what we were. In you.

So live, Dylan. Live the life you deserve. Make it everything you ever wanted, and if my name ever crosses your mind, let it be a memory that doesn’t hurt anymore. Because for all my mistakes, for all the ways I let you down, loving you was the one thing I got right.

I will continue to love you beyond what is possible, until forever itself ceases to exist. Until forever falls.

Brooks

29

Dylan

Now

My fingers hover over the words as if touching them might burn me. My eyes rake over the sentences again, again, again—frantic, starving for a different version, some loophole that makes this easier to wrap my head around. But the ink doesn’t shift. The truth doesn’t change. It just sits there mercilessly, the one question I never stopped asking, finally screaming back at me.

With every reread, the anger spreads like oil in water, impossible to contain. A decade I spent gripping a lie so tightly it became part of me. Even then, in that cold parking lot, I knew he was holding something back. I stood there begging, my heart in my hands, and he didn’t even reach for it.

So I left. Tore myself from Rockport’s grip, convinced I was alone. Trust was a currency I’d never afford again. Because the one time I spent it, it bled me dry.

It’s funny, in a messed-up kind of way, how that betrayal didn’t just wound me—it rewired me. It left me cold, guarded, terrified of letting anyone too close. For years, the thought of tearing down those walls felt impossible.

And now? Now I find out it was all based on a lie. Not a cruel, vindictive one. A scared, messy, human lie. It’s almost worse, because there’s no easy way out now. I can’t just turn my back on him and be done. Instead, I’m buried under a heap of contradictions, stuck between what I should do and what I can’t seem to let go of.

I used to think I was reckless, letting myself fall so fast, so completely—for someone who abandoned me when I was at my lowest. I’ve replayed that story a thousand times, convinced my mistake was loving him at all. But now I see the real failure wasn’t in loving him. It was in believing he didn’t love me, in never demanding the truth, in running away without a fight.

Now I see it. I’ve spent a decade resenting him for a choice he made out of fear, believing it was the only way to protect me. He was terrified, convinced he wouldn’t make it, and he carried that burden alone. I’m furious—not just at him, but at myself—for never stopping to consider there was more to the story.

I was held hostage by my own grief, so ensnared by it that I never noticed he was breaking too. Bitterness became my armor, easier to cling to than the truth. That I wasn’t the only one hurting. That maybe Brooks wasn’t the villain I painted him as, just the easiest one to blame.

The realization slams into me—I’m my mother.Not with a bottle in my grip, but in every way that truly matters. I let affliction fester, let it burrow into me the way she let the liquor seep into her veins. Her addiction was alcohol; mine is this relentless, all consuming resentment. And just like her, I’ve let it incinerate everything good before I even realized I was holding the match.

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