The hospital room was quiet again.
Even the machines had stopped trying to sound urgent — their beeps had become background music. Steady. Pointless. Like someone playing a piano in a room where no one listens anymore.
He stared at the ceiling, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. But he didn't blink. He just let them gather, wobble, and fall down the side of his face like silent confessions.
And in that stillness, he whispered to no one:
"It's decided"
If no one was around, he would reach for the button.
The one that kept the machines humming.
The one that kept his heart beating.
The one that kept him here.
He would switch it off.
What more could there be beyond this?
His family would cry — of course they would. Maybe for a month.
They'd remember him daily for a year.
Maybe two.
But after that?
They would go back to their lives.
Because life always moves on.
It has to.
And maybe that's the most painful part of all —
That people can move on without you.
But at least they would move on without suffering.
Because staying meant so much more than just existing.
It meant…
– Medical bills piling up.
– Cancer treatments with no promises.
– Loans on top of loans.
– The house his grandparents built being mortgaged or sold.
– His parents breaking down quietly every night.
– His siblings living in the shadow of his illness.
– His mother praying to a God she no longer believed in.
– And after all that… no guarantee he'd even live to see another year.
He had done the math. Emotionally. Financially. Spiritually.
And the answer was always the same:
"All of this… is it worth it?"
He didn't think so.
Because deep inside, he knew:
He hadn't earned the kind of sacrifice they were making for him.
He had no job.
No achievements.
No love story.
His dream had been simple:
Get a decent job.
Let his parents arrange a good marriage.
Have a small family.
Live a quiet life.
Now?
He was too weak to even walk to the bathroom alone.
The doctors were trying.
But hope costs money.
And money… was the one thing his family could not afford to waste.
He thought of his grandparents — how they'd worked hard, saved every money bought that house brick by brick.
If they hadn't… his family would be renting a tiny flat right now.
So he asked himself again:
"Is my life really worth the price of destroying theirs?"
And the answer came quietly.
Not with rage.
Not with drama.
Just… peace.
"Maybe death isn't that sad."
Maybe it's just… fair.
*************
"24… ahh."
He exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like it had waited years to leave.
"Twenty-four…" he said again, softer. "I think my mind's mature enough now… mature enough to think beyond my sweet little cancer."
He laughed a little, the kind of laugh that ends in silence.
"I know… if you ask any parent whether they'd trade their life for their child's, they'd say yes — happily, without a second thought."
He looked up at the ceiling — the same one he had stared at for weeks now.
"But me?" he whispered, "I'm not selfish enough to let them."
"I can't take their happiness, their years of hard work, their money… and burn it all down just to keep myself alive."
His fingers trembled slightly on the edge of the blanket.
"They still have two other children to look at… to hope for."
He inhaled deeply, slowly, like he was preparing for something. Then he let it go.
And his voice broke just a little.
"Oh, my little sister…"
He smiled faintly, lips curled in love and pain.
"You're not old enough yet to understand what's happening. Not really.
But one day you will.
And on that day, when you look around and I'm not there…
Please don't cry."
His eyes shimmered.
"Forgive your stupid brother.
I promise — I'm doing this because I love you."
A longer silence followed, until suddenly… a soft smile appeared.
He tilted his head as if speaking directly to someone only he could see.
"Brother… you have to become stronger now.
Not in your arms.
Not in your body.
But up here—" he gently tapped his temple, "—in your mind."
He closed his eyes for a second, imagining a world without him in it.
A future.
A life lived by those he loved.
"They'll all think I was stupid for doing this," he whispered.
"But one day, when they older…
When they married, struggling, building a life of they own…
Somewhere deep down, they 'll understand.
And maybe… just maybe…
You'll thank me.
Not out loud.
But in that quiet place where real feelings live."
And then, for the first time in days…
He looked peaceful.
He reached slowly toward the side drawer.
His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled it open and took out an old pen and a blank sheet of paper.
He stared at it for a while.
Then he began to write.
Word after word poured out of him, not like poetry — but like someone trying to catch their last thoughts before they disappeared.
He didn't write long. Just enough.
After some time, he stopped.
Folded the paper gently.
Placed it to the side like it was something sacred.
Then, his eyes drifted to the photo frame.
He picked it up with both hands — careful, like it might break if he gripped it too tightly.
In the frame: five people.
One couple. Three children.
A family.
His family.
He held it closer. And that's when the first tear hit the glass.
Then another.
Then more.
"I… I'm really sorry..." he whispered.
His voice cracked.
"I know... you'll all be disappointed in me…
for giving up so early. For stopping the fight."
He lowered his head slightly, forehead touching the edge of the frame.
"But I couldn't… I couldn't watch you suffer like this.
Not for me.
Not anymore."
His tears fell faster now, soaking into the sleeves of his gown.
"If there's a God in this world — and if I meet Him after this —
I'll ask Him why..."
"Why did You give my parents Your punishment through me?
Why did You let me have so little time with them?
Why punish them... when I'm the one leaving?"
He paused, trying to breathe.
"If I did something terrible in a past life, why didn't You punish me there?
Why in this one — when I never got the chance to live?"
And then… he broke.
He cried — not quietly this time, but with every part of himself.
He wept like a child too tired to hide anymore.
No one was there to see it.
And maybe that was for the best.
Time passed. He didn't know how much.
But slowly… he wiped his tears.
**************
The hospital room is dim, the air thick with silence.
Only the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the monitor keeps time with his fading heartbeat.
Young man lies still on the bed, his chest rising faintly, as if each breath is a mountain.
The oxygen tube feeds air into his lungs—barely enough.
His lips are dry.
His eyes are wide open, staring at the white ceiling above, but his mind is far away.
His body fights,
but his soul is tired.
He turns his head slowly… painfully… toward the corner of the bed.
There, beside him, is the oxygen machine.
The digital screen glows soft blue.
One switch.
One decision.
His hand—weak, shaking—reaches out.
It trembles in the air for a moment.
Then slowly, with all the strength he has left,...
he presses the switch.
Click.
A faint mechanical hum winds down.
The oxygen flow stops.
The soft hiss that kept him alive… disappears.
Silence.
He takes a sharp breath—
then coughs.
His chest heaves.
But he doesn't fight it.
He welcomes it.
His eyes begin to water, but not from pain—from release.
He grabs the photo frame beside him.
A family frozen in time—smiling, alive, full of dreams.
He holds it close to his chest.
Tears fall silently, dotting the photo.
His lips move—whispers no one hears:
"I love you… I'm sorry..."
The monitor's beep slows.
Slower.
Slower.
Until—
a flat line.
Suddenly—
"BEEP BEEP BEEP!"
The alarm blares.
The door bursts open.
A nurse rushes in, sees the machine, the flatline—
her eyes widen in horror.
"Doctor! Emergency! He's shut off the oxygen!"
Moments later, the doctor storms in.
"Clear!"
....
Thud. The bed shakes from the shock.
"Again!"
Thud.
They try. Again. And again.
Desperate. Sweating. Shouting.
But the monitor stays flat.
A cold, steady line.
The doctor lowers his hands.
Silence.
"The young man is gone."
************
In a crowded shopping mall,
a woman in her fifties stands behind a billing counter, dressed in a faded worker's uniform.
She moves on autopilot—scanning items, printing receipts, forcing polite smiles.
But today… something feels wrong.
She keeps glancing at the entrance.
At the sky outside.
At nothing in particular.
Her hands suddenly stop.
The barcode scanner beeps impatiently, waiting.
But she doesn't move.
She puts a hand to her chest.
Something cold ripples through her.
Her breath shortens.
Her vision blurs—but not from tears, not yet.
Customers look at her, puzzled..
.....
But inside her heart,
a storm is brewing.
Some call it a sixth sense.
Some call it nonsense.
But a mother knows.
Then—
her phone rings.
The ringtone slices through the air like a blade.
She doesn't reach for it right away.
Her hand hovers over the phone, trembling.
She already knows.
She doesn't know how.
But she knows.
She picks up slowly.
Press the phone to her ear.
Her voice is hollow and fragile.
"Hello?"
On the other end, a calm, emotionless voice says:
"Miss… we're sorry to inform you… your son—"
She doesn't let them finish.
The phone slips from her hand.
It hits the ground with a dull clatter.
Her knees give way.
She crashes against the counter, grabbing it to stay upright.
And then—
the dam breaks.
She screams.
Not just a cry,
but a sound torn from the deepest part of her soul.
People stop.
They turn.
They stare.
But all she can do is crumble on the floor,
hands pressed to her chest,
as if trying to hold her heart from falling apart.
She doesn't need confirmation.
She doesn't need words.
She already knew. And
She cry....
Cry louder...
**********
Still on the cold, tile floor of the shopping mall,
the mother trembles.
Her body wracked with sobs.
Eyes swollen.
Chest heaving.
The world is spinning around her.
With shaking fingers,
she reaches her phone
Her hand trembles violently as she unlocks the screen.
She dials a number—his number.
Her husband.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Then connects.
No words.
Just breath.
And then—her voice breaks through.
Ragged. Shattered.
"He's gone…"
A pause. A sob.
"Our son… he… our little boy…"
"He's… gone…"
Then she breaks.
"Aaaaahhh—soooo gone—he's gone…"
Her scream echoes across the floor like glass shattering.
The mall falls silent.
---
In a quiet repair shop across town,
a man in his fifties—greying hair, oil on his hands—
answers the call.
At first, he just listens.
Frozen.
No words.
No breath.
No sound.
Only the voice of his wife—
falling apart on the other end.
His eyes widen, unblinking.
Mouth opens slightly—then closes.
His hands fall to his sides.
The wrench he was holding drops to the floor with a clang.
And then—
his chest rises sharply.
He gasps.
As if the air itself just left the room.
His face changes.
Aged.
Like he grew ten years in ten seconds.
His knees buckle.
And then—
he collapses.
---
Coworkers rush toward him.
Calling his name.
Lifting his shoulders.
Trying to understand.
But one friend—an old one—
just stares at him.
Eyes full of tears.
He already knows.
Without a single word spoken—he knows.