Five days before our wedding, my fiancé vanished. No calls, no note. Heartbroken, I went on our honeymoon to Paris alone—only to find him in the hotel lobby. He broke down when he saw me.
Davian told me he’d discovered a mass on his kidney and fled out of fear. He didn’t want me tied to a life of hospitals and decline. He hadn’t meant to abandon me, but he couldn’t face telling me the truth.
We spent those days in Paris together, not as bride and groom but as two people caught between love and uncertainty. He confessed he might never have come home if the results were bad. When I left, I told myself it was over.
Then came his call: the tumor was benign. Relief mixed with anger, and I kept my distance until he sent me a letter explaining everything—his childhood, his father’s death from kidney cancer, his terror of repeating that story. “If I’d been dying, I would’ve wanted you there at the end. So how could I not want you there while I lived?” he wrote. That line pulled me back.
We reunited, but slowly. Therapy. Space. Stumbles. Yet we always found our way to each other. Two years later, we married in a small, imperfect, beautiful ceremony.
Now, every scan still makes me nervous, but I don’t live in fear anymore. Because I know what it means to lose him—and what it means to choose him again.
