Lisbon hummed with life outside the rain-splattered window. The bookstore was warm, cluttered, and smelled of old pages and espresso.
Elise reached for a worn copy of The Little Prince — and so did someone else.
Their fingers brushed. Her heart skipped.
“Oh—sorry,” he said, smiling like he’d just stolen a star. “You first.”
“You clearly got here first,” she replied.
“Then we’ve got a dilemma,” he said. “Want to share a coffee and settle it?”
Elise almost said no. But his eyes were kind, and something about the rainy day made her braver.
That one yes changed everything.
His name was Julian. He took photos of people, cities, and skies for magazines and never stayed in one place too long. She played violin in an orchestra and had lived in the same apartment for six years.
“You don’t like risk,” he said.
“You like nothing but,” she replied.
He grinned. “And yet here we are.”
They explored hidden alleys, shared pastries on tram rides, danced badly at a street festival. She laughed more in three days than she had in a year.
And when he kissed her by the Tagus River, with lights shimmering off the water, she didn’t think about tomorrow.
She just let herself fall.
They never talked about the future.
Every morning was a new page — a new part of the city, a new story, a new flavor.
But one afternoon, while Julian was in the shower, Elise looked for a charger in his backpack.
Instead, she found a small amber bottle.
She read the label. Lorlatinib. Stage IV Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer.
Her breath froze.
He came out, towel slung around his neck. Their eyes met. He saw the bottle in her hand.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?” Her voice cracked. “When you collapsed in front of me? Or after I gave you all of me?”
Silence.
Then, softly: “I didn’t think I’d meet you.”
That night, she packed.
And then unpacked.
And then sat on the floor until dawn.
He didn’t beg her to stay. Just sat across from her, eyes hollow, breathing shallow.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. But I want to.
They wrote a list:
Moments We Want Before the Clock Stops
- Dance under Roman lights
- Swim in the Aegean
- Drink wine in the Czech snow
- Fall asleep on a train together
- Watch the sunrise and not speak
- Play “Clair de Lune” for him
- Take one photo with no caption
- Say goodbye — the real way
They chased that list across Europe.
Julian took photos of her in Istanbul, framed by lanterns.
Elise played on a rooftop in Rome for no one but him.
They kissed in a snowstorm in Prague, wine staining their lips, laughter echoing between their hands.
Every moment was fragile. And breathtaking.
But time doesn’t make deals.
One morning, Julian couldn’t get out of bed.
Another, he forgot where they were.
Then, one night in Prague, after a quiet dinner and a soft song from Elise, Julian collapsed.
Sirens. A white room. Machines. Wires.
She held his hand through it all.
And then… just silence.
The nurse handed her a small recorder.
“He said to give this to you after.”
Elise stared at it for days.
And then finally — pressed play.
“Elise. I never believed in borrowed time. But then I met you.”
“You were the note I didn’t know I was missing. The pause that gave the music meaning.”
“Please don’t stop playing. Even if I’m not there to listen.”
“Go live. Go be all the things I can’t anymore. And when you fall in love again… let it in. Don’t punish the next sunrise because the last one faded.”
“I love you. Always. And that… was worth everything.”
Months passed.
Lisbon felt like another life. So did she.
But on one crisp spring evening, in a candlelit hall, Elise stood on a small stage.
She closed her eyes.
And played Clair de Lune.
Every note was a memory. A whisper. A kiss.
People wept. She did too. But softly. Fully.
The music was hers again.
Later, on a quiet morning, Elise boarded a train. Alone.
A small leather journal rested on her lap — Julian’s.
She opened to the first page:
“Day 1 with Elise. Didn’t expect her. Didn’t want to want someone. But here I am. Terrified. Hopeful. Alive.”
She smiled.
And looked out the window as the world blurred by.
No final destination.
Just motion. Just music.
Just borrowed time — lived well.
Because some loves are not meant to last a lifetime.
Just long enough to change one.
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