The Moon Never Bids Farewell

The year Daniel went broke, I swallowed every last drop of pride.  I took a job as a dancer at a shady nightclub just to pay off his debts. We lived in a forty-dollar-a-night basement room, surviving on stale energy bars and tap water.  I became the laughingstock of everyone we used to know. Eight years later, he pulled off the ultimate comeback and clawed his way back to the top. His very first move?  Bringing his high school sweetheart, Mia, straight into our home. At his victory party, in front of a room packed with people, he laid down three rules for me. "First, keep your distance in public. Mia’s a total germaphobe. "Second, Mia is sensitive. From now on, tell people you’re my assistant. "Third, never bring up your nightclub days again. It disgusts me." Mia clutched her tea glass and added timidly, "Maddy, I’ll be in your care." The room erupted in laughter.  The looks thrown my way were a mix of pity and mockery. I just smiled and nodded. "Of course." The next day, I moved my things into the maid’s quarters and handed over the master bedroom.  When she complained that the doorknobs I had touched were filthy, I hired a deep-cleaning crew to sanitize the entire house. When Daniel came home that night, his eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed my wrist, shaking with rage. "Maddy, what the hell is this drama? Do you still think you're some spoiled rich girl?" I didn't have the energy to fight back, let alone answer. Eight years of pouring cheap liquor down my throat had burned through my body. Hidden in my nightstand drawer, buried beneath a stack of old mail, was a late-stage stomach cancer diagnosis. In three days, I would be gone from his world forever. Chapter 1 "Take off that ring." Daniel walked in through the front door, dropping his briefcase on the entry table. His eyes landed on the tarnished band on my ring finger. We had bought the pair eight years ago at a flea market for fifteen bucks. He lost his on the day we moved into that cramped basement apartment. Mine had weathered the years, leaving a faint green mark against my skin. Daniel unfurled his necktie without bothering to look up. "Mia's coming over for dinner tomorrow. If she sees you wearing that, she's going to overthink things." He added coldly, "Besides, it's tacky. It makes us look bad. Just lose it." I didn't argue. I simply twisted the metal off my knuckle. "Where should I put it?" "Wherever. Trash it for all I care." I didn't throw it away. Instead, I slid it deep into the guest room nightstand, tucked right beside my medical report. By then, Daniel was already in the kitchen, warming up a glass of milk for Mia. She hated cold drinks. Years ago, he didn't even know where we kept the electric kettle. I sat on the folding bed in the spare room, hunched over, waiting for the razor-sharp pain in my stomach to pass. The spasms were getting worse. It used to be once a day. Now it hit three times a day like clockwork. My phone buzzed with a text from Daniel. “Get dinner outside tomorrow. Come back late. Mia and I need to talk.” I typed back a single word, “Okay.” Another text popped up. “Don't forget the ground rules. Mind your place while she's here.” Eight years ago, our basement room was sixty square feet. He had a hundred-and-three-degree fever, shivering in the corner. I held him all night while he sobbed into my shoulder, apologizing over and over. I flipped the phone face down on the mattress. --- By midnight, the stomach agony kept me wide awake. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Crossing the dark living room, I spotted a bottle of disinfectant spray sitting on the coffee table. It was brand new. The label bore Mia’s delicate handwriting. “Sanitize the entire house daily.” Next to it was a scribbled sticky note from Daniel. “Focus on the maid's room and sinks.” Those were all the places I had touched during the day. Mia thought I was filthy. Daniel agreed. I stood in the dark living room, staring at the spray bottle for a long time. Then I pulled out my phone and booked a professional deep-cleaning service. My hands shook as I typed. It wasn't out of hurt. My stomach cramps were so severe that my muscles wouldn't stop twitching. --- The cleaners arrived the next afternoon. When Daniel walked in after work, the harsh smell of disinfectant hit him immediately. He froze in the entryway, then stormed straight into the guest room. I was quietly folding clothes. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. "Maddy, what the hell is this drama?" His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a tense whisper. "What drama?" I asked without looking up. "You wanted the place sanitized, so I had it sanitized." "I only mentioned it because Mia has a severe phobia…" "I know," I cut in calmly. I placed a folded sweater into the drawer. "That’s why I brought in professionals. They'll do a far better job than you with a spray bottle." "It's not that I think you're..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Because he did think I was dirty. His grip loosened, and he stepped back, completely speechless. Later that night, I overheard him on the phone with Mia in the master bedroom. "It's nothing. She's just throwing a little tantrum. She'll be over it in a couple of days." His voice softened. "Don't worry about it. You know how she is, all bark and no bite." He was convinced I would never leave him. For eight years, he had always been right. Except this time, he ran out of time. Chapter 2 Mia walked into the private dining room on Daniel’s arm, sending me a sweet smile. "Maddy, could you help me cover my drinks tonight?" It was the company’s anniversary dinner with key clients. I was seated at the far end of the long table, squeezed next to the interns. My place card read, “Maddy, Executive Assistant to the CEO.” Mia sat right at Daniel's right hand, the place of honor. "Daniel, your fiancé is absolute perfection," a client cheered, raising a toast. Daniel just smiled, casually slipping an arm around Mia’s shoulders. Nobody corrected the client. Three rounds in, Mia leaned back in her leather chair and glanced down the table at me. She tipped her chin up slightly. "Maddy, go take care of Mr. Clark's table," she said. "Daniel’s stomach is sensitive. He shouldn't be drinking." She knew his stomach was sensitive. She also knew mine was far worse. Eight years ago, the first time I entertained clients for him, I threw up blood in the bathroom. Daniel had gone out of his mind. He dragged me out of that venue, held me on a cold hospital bench, and swore he’d never let me touch a drop of alcohol again. Now, the woman sending me into the fray was the one he brought home. "Of course," I said smoothly. I stood up and walked over to Mr. Clark's table with a full glass of fifty-three-percent liquor. The first shot went down. My stomach twisted like a wrung-out wet rag. The second shot went down. A metallic warmth bubbled up in the back of my throat. I swallowed it back down. Mr. Clark slapped the table with a loud laugh. "Now that’s what I call team spirit, Maddy! One more!" As I raised the third glass to my lips, I caught Daniel looking my way. He frowned, his mouth opening as if to speak. But right at that moment, Mia leaned over and whispered something in his ear. His eyes shifted away. He looked back down and gently plated a piece of cod for her. It was steamed. No spice, no oil, perfectly bland. Mia had a delicate digestive system, so she only ate plain food. He remembered every single one of her dietary restrictions. Yet after eight years, he forgot I couldn't drink. Or maybe he remembered, and just didn't care anymore. I knocked back the third shot. The agony in my core turned into a dull, terrifying numbness. Setting the empty glass down, I clinked the rim against Mr. Clark's glass with a tight smile. "Excuse me for a moment." --- The second the lock clicked on the restroom stall door, I doubled over. It wasn't liquor coming up. It was dark, deep red blood, mixed with shredded bits of stomach lining. This was what late-stage cancer looked like. The tumors were tearing through my blood vessels. I slid down the cold tile wall and crouched there until the dizziness cleared. I wiped my lips and fingers clean with a tissue, then pulled out my lipstick. My face in the mirror was ghost-white, but a heavy coat of crimson hid the worst of it. When I stepped out, the private room door opened. Daniel was leaning against the frame, his tie loosened. Mia was standing right behind him, waiting. "Maddy," he said, eyeing me. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a box of medicine and a black card. He shoved them into my hand. "Good work tonight. Take this card and buy yourself something nice to recover." I looked down at the box. It was still in a cheap plastic bag from a local corner pharmacy. Eight years ago, he walked three miles through a rainstorm to fetch a custom herbal remedy for my stomach. Now, he didn't even bother to check what medication I was actually taking. Antacids would only neutralize acid, they couldn't cure a terminal tumor. "Thank you," I said softly, taking both the card and the box. Mia stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. She wrapped her arms around herself. "Daniel, it's so windy out here. I'm freezing." He immediately slipped off his designer suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. As they passed me, Daniel paused for a fraction of a second. He was probably remembering the ground rules he gave me. Once he verified I was standing at a respectable distance, he took Mia’s hand and walked out into the night. I stood alone in the quiet hallway, turning the black card over in my fingers. A hundred-thousand-dollar limit. I guess that was what my life was worth to him. Back in my tiny guest room, I tossed the box of antacids straight into the trash. Chapter 3 The day before my departure, I started packing my bags. It wasn't a large suitcase. It was just a twenty-inch carry-on. It was the exact same bag I carried when we moved into that basement room eight years ago. I packed only a few changes of clothes, tucking a printed replica of our old photo between the layers. Inside the side compartment, I slipped the cheap copper ring and the admission contract for the hospice care center. The jewelry, the clothes, the designer bags and everything bought by him, I left every single piece behind. I was halfway through zipping the suitcase when footsteps sounded at the doorway. "Maddy." Daniel leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at the suitcase on the floor, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smirk. He thought it was funny. "Haven't you had enough of this drama?" I didn't pause, folding my last jacket into the bag. "Mia is only staying temporarily," he said. "If it really bothers you that much, I'll just have her move out earlier." He walked over and pressed a hand flat against the suitcase lid. "There's no need to play the run-away card just to make a point." I looked up at him. "Daniel, I'm not trying to make a point." "Then what the hell are you doing?" Impatience crept into his voice. "It's always the same story with you. “You make a scene, you pack up, and in the end, you always come crawling back." He squatted down, bringing his eyes level with mine. He reached out to pinch my cheek, but I turned my head away, dodging his touch. His hand froze in midair. Slowly, he pulled it back and rested his palms on his knees. "Maddy, it's been eight years. When have you ever seen me actually walk away from you?" I pulled the zipper shut. Then I stood up. "Your stomach medication is in the second drawer on the left. The recipe for your honey water is taped to the side of the fridge. “Raw honey mixed with warm water, never above a hundred degrees." "What is this supposed to mean?" He stood up too, his expression darkening. "It doesn't mean anything. Just drink less in the future." "Maddy." He grabbed my wrist, squeezing so hard my bones popped under the pressure. "If you walk out that door today…" He paused, letting the silence hang. "...Don't expect me to come get you." "Okay," I replied. He didn't believe I was actually leaving. For eight years, after every single fight, he had always been right. The farthest I had ever gone was the convenience store downstairs. I would just buy a bottle of water, sit on the curb for half an hour, and then walk back upstairs to knock on the door. He was just as confident this time. When I put on my shoes at the entryway, he didn't follow me out. He just stood in the middle of the living room, watching me with an icy face. Mia poked her head out of the master bedroom, her voice faint and timid. "Daniel, what's wrong?" He turned back toward her. "It's nothing. She's just throwing a fit. She'll be back in a couple of days." The front door clicked shut. --- I pulled my suitcase into the elevator. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Daniel, “Come back once you've cooled off. There's porridge in the fridge.” Another text followed, “Don't go too far. It'll be hard to hail a cab later.” He assumed I was just booking a hotel room for the night. My train was leaving in three hours. I would be heading straight to the state cancer hospital's hospice care unit. I switched off my phone. The suitcase wheels hummed loudly as I dragged them across the concrete floor of the underground garage. The space was completely empty, leaving behind nothing but the echo of my own footsteps. Chapter 4 He tracked me down on the fourth day. I learned later that he hadn't bothered to look for me during the first three. On the first night, he worked until eleven. When he got home and saw the yellowed honey-water recipe taped to the fridge, it annoyed him. He tore it down, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. On the third night, a sharp attack of stomach pain dragged him out of bed. He limped into the kitchen, looking for a drink. Out of habit, he glanced at the side of the fridge. It was completely bare, except for a faint, dried patch of glue. He stood alone in the dark kitchen, staring at that blank spot for a long time. Then, he went into the spare room and started digging through my drawers. He found the black card first. He checked the transaction history and realized it. Zero balance used. He kept digging. Buried beneath an old notebook, he found a printed confirmation for a train ticket to the state capital. It didn't take him long to trace my exact location. The state cancer center, thirteenth floor. --- Two hours later, he barged into the ward. When he pushed the door open, I was sitting on the hospital bed, sipping bitter herbal medicine. An IV port was taped to my forearm, and my cheeks had sunken in drastically. He stood in the doorway, his chest heaving heavily. Then, he let out a scoff. "Maddy, did you really check into a place like this just to make me feel remorse?" He strolled over to the bedside. "Fine. You win. I shouldn't have forced you to be my assistant. I shouldn't have said those things." He reached for my wrist. "Mia already moved out. Let's go home." Noticeable marks from the IV lines made him pause, so he switched tactics, grabbing my other arm instead. "Come on. Drop the act." I pulled my arm out of his grip. "Daniel, look at the sign above the door." He turned his head. The plaque beside the doorway read, “Hospice & Palliative Care Unit.” His hand froze in midair. Slowly, his eyes drifted down to the patient card mounted at the head of my bed. “Patient: Maddy. Diagnosis: Stage IV Poorly Differentiated Gastric Adenocarcinoma. Liver metastasis. Peritoneal seeding.” He stared at those lines for what felt like an eternity. The cold smile on his face slowly dissolved into nothing. "I need to speak to the head doctor!" he snapped, spinning around to leave. "Where did you buy these fake documents?! “How much did you pay these people to put on a show for me?!" Out in the hallway, he cornered a doctor passing by. "Maddy's medical records are a scam! She's playing games! Name your price. I'll pay double to have her discharged right now!" He slammed a credit card down onto the nurses' station counter. The doctor didn't flinch. He simply slid my pathology report across the counter toward him. "Sir, palliative care patients need peace and quiet. If you keep causing a scene, I'll have security throw you out." Daniel stared at the printed lines, looking as if he had forgotten how to read. "Treat it," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I don't care how much it costs. Just treat her." The doctor fell silent for a moment. "Sir, she signed a hospice directive when she was admitted." Daniel whipped his head back to look at me. "What directive?" I set the lukewarm cup of medicine down on the nightstand. "No invasive treatments," I said softly. "Only pain management." The color drained from his face, inch by inch, until he was ghastly pale. I looked at him and said gently, "Daniel, this time, it seems you can't take me home.”