BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER SIX
WARNINGS — terminal illness (graphic symptoms), miscarriage/child loss, emotional neglect, mental health deterioration, grief, medical trauma, suicidal ideation (non-explicit)
you’re in the living room, curled on the couch, a blanket draped over your knees like it can hold you together. your body feels like it’s unraveling, threads pulling loose with every breath, every cough. the mansion’s too quiet, the glass walls swallowing sound, the city lights flickering beyond like they’re mocking you. your phone’s on the coffee table, screen dark, but you know the voicemail’s there, the one you didn’t delete, the one you meant to erase before rafe could find it. you forgot. you forget a lot now—words, appointments, the way your hands used to feel steady. your nails are coral, chipped to nothing, the color rafe liked when you were someone he saw. you don’t fix them anymore. what’s the point?
you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and check it. blood, dark and sticky, like it’s tired of hiding. you fold the fabric, tuck it under the blanket, and tell yourself you’ll wash it later, like you’ve washed away every stain—in the sink, on the bathroom floor, in the garden where the forget-me-nots are dying. you think of the baby shoes, hidden in the box labeled winter coats, the ones you bought for lily, the child rafe never knew about. you think of the letters in the safe, locked with your birthday, the ones you wrote when you realized you wouldn’t make it to next spring. you think of the silk robe, tag still on, folded in the closet, and the swan-shaped perfume bottles, dusty on the dresser. you think of henry, the chauffeur, his voice from yesterday: you carry too much alone. nobody should have to do that. it burns, that truth, but you push it down, like always.
rafe’s home early for once, 9:12 pm, his keys rattling in the foyer, his shoes loud on the marble. you hear him muttering, something about a deal gone wrong, his voice sharp, distracted. he steps into the living room, his tie loose, his jacket slung over his arm. “you’re up,” he says, not looking, his eyes on his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “thought you’d be in bed.”
you don’t answer right away, your throat too raw, your hands too shaky. you nod, a small movement, and pull the blanket tighter. he glances at you, brief, like he’s checking if you’re still there. “you look worse,” he says, his voice flat, like he’s stating the weather. “you sick or what?”
“just tired,” you say, your voice thin, like it’s been worn to threads. it’s the same lie you’ve told for months, the one he always accepts. he nods, already turning away, but his foot catches your phone on the table, knocking it to the floor. it lights up, the screen glowing, and before you can move, he’s picking it up, frowning at the notification. missed voicemail, dr. ellis, 3:47 pm.
“what’s this?” he says, more to himself, and taps the screen. you freeze, your heart a stone in your chest, but you’re too tired, too slow to stop him. the voicemail plays, the doctor’s voice clinical, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “this is dr. ellis from st. mary’s. we need to discuss your results. it’s stage four. please call us back when you have someone to bring you. we can’t proceed without support.”
the room goes still, like the air’s been sucked out. rafe’s face changes, his eyes wide, his phone slipping from his hand to the couch. he looks at you, really looks, for the first time in months, his mouth open, like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. you sit there, your hands twisted in the blanket, your breath shallow, waiting for him to say something, anything. your world stopped months ago, when the cough turned to blood, when the aches became a weight you couldn’t carry. his is stopping now, and you’re too tired to feel anything but empty.
“what... what the hell is this?” he says, his voice cracking, like he’s choking on it. he steps closer, his hands shaking, his eyes searching yours like he’s seeing a stranger. “stage four? what does that mean? why didn’t you tell me?”
you look at him, your smile gone, your face heavy, like it’s carved from stone. “i didn’t want to bother you,” you say, flat, the words falling like pebbles. “you’ve been busy.”
he flinches, like you slapped him, and runs a hand through his hair, pacing now, his shoes loud against the floor. “busy? are you serious? you’re—you’re dying, and you didn’t tell me because i was busy?” his voice rises, sharp, but there’s something else under it, something raw, like he’s breaking.
you shrug, a small, tired movement, and look at your hands, the coral polish flaking, the sleeve stained beneath the blanket. “you haven’t looked at me in months, rafe,” you say, your voice steady, even as your chest aches. “you kiss my hair, you say i look tired, but you don’t see me. what was i supposed to say? ‘hey, i’m dying, can you take a break from your meetings?’”
he stops pacing, his face pale, his eyes wet, like he’s seeing you for the first time and hating himself for it. “how long?” he asks, his voice low, barely there. “how long have you known?”
“months,” you say, and the word feels like a confession, like you’re admitting a crime. “since the blood started. since i missed appointments. since i wrote the letters.”
“letters?” he says, his brow furrowing, his hands clenching. “what letters?”
you shake your head, too tired to explain, too tired to drag him into the safe, the envelopes, the shoes, the secrets you’ve carried alone. “it doesn’t matter,” you say, and cough, soft, into your sleeve. you don’t check it. you know what’s there.
he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering, like he’s afraid to touch you, like you might break. “it matters,” he says, his voice thick, desperate. “god, it matters. why didn’t you tell me? i could’ve—i don’t know, i could’ve done something, been here, anything.”
you look at him, his eyes wide, his face close, and you see the man you loved, the one who danced with you in a cramped apartment, who laughed when you spilled wine on his shirt. you see the man who stopped seeing you, who chased deals and left notes and kissed your hair instead of your mouth. “you weren’t here,” you say, not cruel, just true. “i didn’t want to beg you to care.”
he makes a sound, like a sob caught in his throat, and presses his forehead to your knees, his hands gripping the blanket. “i’m sorry,” he says, over and over, like it’s a prayer, like it can change anything. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t know. i didn’t see.”
you don’t touch him, not because you don’t want to, but because your hands are too heavy, your body too frail. you think of the garden, the lilies you named for the child you lost, the forget-me-nots crumbling to dust. you think of the shoes, hidden in the closet, the box labeled winter coats where lily’s memory lives. you think of the letters, locked away, the words you wrote when you knew you were fading. you think of the swan bottles, the silk robe, the life you built for a man who didn’t look.
“i’m tired, rafe,” you say, your voice soft, like a sigh. “i’ve been tired for a long time.”
he lifts his head, his eyes red, his face raw, like he’s seeing every moment he missed—every cough you hid, every bloodstain you washed, every night you waited. he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm, desperate, but you pull back, not because you don’t love him, but because you’re too far gone to feel it. “what can i do?” he asks, his voice breaking. “tell me what to do.”
you shake your head, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. “just look at me,” you say, and for the first time in months, he does, his eyes locked on yours, like he’s trying to memorize you before you disappear.
you don’t go to bed. you stay on the couch, the blanket slipping, your sleeve stained, your phone silent now. rafe sits beside you, closer than he’s been in years, his hand hovering, like he’s afraid to break you. you think of henry’s words, you carry too much alone, and wonder if rafe will ever understand. you think of lily, the shoes, the blood you cleaned. you think of the letters, waiting for a day he’ll open them and know. you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and let the blood dry, a mark you don’t hide anymore.
you lean your head back, the city lights blurring, and close your eyes. you dream of a voicemail, repeating, and a man who finally sees you, too late.
