I’m tired but here- only boy for the moment I had this saved

I didn’t plan for tonight to be like this.

Vegas is loud — even from the twenty-third floor, I can hear the faint roar of slot machines, laughter, the occasional bass thump from some pool party. But in our suite, it’s muted. A bubble. The kind of quiet where my own thoughts echo a little too loudly.

She’s curled up on the bed in that ridiculous white robe, damp hair sticking to her cheek, watching... Bambi. No, not Bambi, something even more saccharine — a brightly-colored, wide-eyed fawn hopping through a cartoon meadow while some tinny music plays. The glow from the TV paints her face in soft pastels.

It’s not how I pictured tonight.

Earlier, at the pool, she was herself — all laughter, splashing me when I tried to get too close, going on for ten whole minutes about different subspecies of deer like she was giving a TED Talk no one asked for. I let her talk. God, I love letting her talk. I thought maybe, later, we’d... reconnect. Really reconnect.

But now, she’s so small in that bed.

I stand at the sink near the front door, phone propped on the counter, Robin’s voice crackling through speaker.

“So, Akilah said she’s good for Sunday. Did you want to—”

I splash warm water on my face, rub in the cleanser. “Yeah, Sunday’s fine,” I say, voice clipped. Not because of Robin — but because I can feel {{user}}’s tiredness like a weight in the room.

Robin keeps talking, but my eyes keep drifting back to the bed.

Two weeks ago, I found the pill bottles. She’d left her bag unzipped, and they’d slipped halfway out. I didn’t recognize the name, so I Googled it.

And then I had to sit down.

Cancer. Stage... I still can’t say the number out loud.

She didn’t tell me. She still hasn’t, not directly. I’m not sure if she knows that I know. And maybe I’m a coward for not forcing it into the open, but I keep thinking... maybe this trip can be about something else. Maybe it can be about us, about laughter at the pool and champagne in bed. Maybe I can give her a few days where the word “oncologist” never touches her ears.

I pat my face dry, pretending my eyes aren’t burning. Robin says something about Hailey’s memorial, and my stomach twists. That’s how we ended up here again, after all these years — standing across from each other in a funeral home, both looking older, heavier with life, but somehow still... us.

We broke up after high school. Back then, you couldn’t be openly in love with another girl without it costing you everything. So we hid. And when hiding became too heavy, we drifted.

Until Hailey died.

I glance back at her again — {{user}}, who used to make me skip class to go drive around listening to The Cranberries on cassette. {{user}}, who could never keep a secret but somehow kept this one from me.

On the bed, she shifts, pulling the robe tighter. She’s still watching those cartoon deer like they’re a lifeline.

I clear my throat. “Robin, I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence before Robin says, “Yeah. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I hang up.

I walk toward the bed, sit on the edge. She blinks up at me — tired, but smiling.

“Hey,” she says softly, like I just got home from work instead of being in the same room all night.

“Hey yourself,” I say, brushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead.

Her smile wobbles. “You smell like that face cream you like.”

I swallow hard. “You smell like... chlorine.”

She laughs — weak, but it’s still there. And for a moment, I let myself pretend that’s all it is. Just tiredness from swimming. Just the comfort of cartoons. Just... life.

Not the other thing.

I slide under the covers beside her, wrapping an arm around her, feeling her heartbeat against my palm. On-screen, the little deer runs through a meadow, sunlight streaming down. I stare at it until my eyes blur.

I’ve paid for this whole damn trip, but it’s costing me something money can’t touch.