The message arrived at 11:11 PM.
“Meet me at California.”
Four words that shouldn’t have meant anything anymore.
But to me, they felt like a heartbeat restarting.
California wasn’t a state.
It wasn’t a dream destination.
It was the cliff we found years ago—a secret place only we knew.
The place we ran to when the world felt too heavy.
The place where he once promised he would stay.
The same place he walked away from when he left.
Two years of silence.
Two years of pretending to forget.
Until now.
My hands trembled as I typed back, I’m coming.
The air was cold, almost biting.
My steps were uneven.
My heart was loud and couldn’t stop beating fast.
As I walked, every memory felt like a ghost brushing against my skin.
The way he held my hand.
The way he laughed.
The way he said, “Wait for me.”
The way he disappeared.
I didn’t know why I was shaking.
Fear?
Hope?
Both?
Maybe I was afraid that seeing him again would bring back a version of me I wasn’t ready to feel.
When I reached the cliff, he was sitting on the edge, staring at the moonlit sea.
But something was wrong.
His shoulders were slumped.
His breathing uneven.
And even from a distance… I could see how pale he had become.
“Michael,” I said.
Then he turned slowly when he heard my voice.
“You came,” he whispered, trying to smile.
Upon seeing him, I was shocked. “You look…” I began, but the words died.
He shook his head softly.
“I know.”
I walked closer, my chest tightening with every step.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
He swallowed hard.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t see me like this.”
“When did you get so thin?”
“When did you start shaking?”
“Why didn’t you tell me—”
As I asked him, tears began to fall, but he lifted a trembling hand, stopping me.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late,” I choked out.
He smiled weakly.
“Yeah… I figured.”
He reached into his coat pocket and handed me a folded piece of paper.
A medical report.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
Cancer.
Terminal.
Late stage.
My vision blurred.
My breath stopped.
“H-How long have you known?” I whispered.
“Almost a year.”
“A year? And you didn’t tell me? Not even once? Why?”
He looked away, ashamed.
“I didn’t want you to see me dying. I didn’t want to be a burden to you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
“You idiot,” I whispered. “I would’ve stayed with you. I would’ve—”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
His voice cracked, thin and fragile.
“Because I knew you would destroy yourself just to keep me alive.”
He suddenly winced, body curling slightly as he clutched his chest.
“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” I rushed forward.
He tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t stay in his lungs.
Not like this.
Not so soon.
Please, not now.
His knees buckled.
I caught him before he hit the ground.
“H-Hey, stay with me,” I begged as I lowered him gently onto my lap.
“I’m here. Look at me.”
His eyes fluttered open.
“I didn’t think… it would get worse this fast,” he whispered.
“Don’t talk like that,” I cried. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll go to a hospital—”
He shook his head weakly.
“No more hospitals. They already said…”
His voice faded.
“This is it.”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“No, please… not here. Not now.”
But he reached up with a shaking hand and touched my face.
“I wanted… my last breath… to be with you.”
A sob tore from my chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I whispered desperately.
He smiled faintly.
“Because I wanted you to remember me… like before. Not like this.”
His breathing grew shallow, each inhale shorter than the last.
“Hey,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to his. “Stay awake. Please. Stay with me.”
His lips trembled.
“I’m tired…”
“No,” I cried softly. “Don’t say that.”
He stared up at the sky, at the moonlight reflecting off the waves.
“California…” he whispered.
“Our place…”
“Yes,” I said, gripping his hand tightly. “Our California.”
His eyes grew glassy.
“We were happy here.”
“We can be again. Just—just stay with me.”
He gave a weak laugh, breath hitching.
“I… I love you,” he breathed out.
My heart shattered.
“I love you too. I love you so much. So, so much.”
He let out a trembling exhale.
“Thank you… for coming back.”
Then his chest rose—
fell—
and didn’t rise again.
His hand slipped from mine.
His body went still.
The waves roared below us.
The wind carried his final warmth away.
And I held him—
his head on my chest,
my tears falling onto his quiet face—
as the boy I once loved
took his final breath in my arms.
The sun eventually rose, painting the sky gold.
But it felt wrong.
Too warm.
Too alive.
Too full of a future he would never see.
I stayed until his body grew cold.
Until I could finally whisper the words I never got to say when he first left:
“You didn’t have to die alone.”
---
I visit California often.
Not because I’m waiting.
But because the cliff remembers.
The wind remembers.
The sea remembers.
And every time I stand there, I swear I can still feel his head resting on my chest,
still hear his final whisper,
still hold the piece of him that never really left.
