No one had seen it coming; he was perfectly healthy one day, and then the next he wasn't. It was a quick decline into the depths of the disease.
He said it didn't hurt, but they all knew that it was a lie, they could see from the way his face twisted and the look in his eyes that it did hurt-very, very much.
She stayed by the bed they assigned him, trying her best to keep a smile on her face, even when the doctors told them that he would most likely die. Within the month, too.
They spent their last days together playing out walks to the end of the block to get coffee, trips to Paris, voyages across the sea.
She tried to stay lighthearted the entire time; after all, there was still hope for the places they imagined going to to be seen by the two. She didn't allow herself to think about the possibility of living without him, she kept herself busy whenever the visiting hours ended and she had to go home. She had smiled for almost a month straight.
She only stopped smiling for the last two hours of his life, one of which he was unconscious for. That's when she realized that he was, in fact, going to die.
That was when she started to cry, that was the first time she cried, the first time she stopped smiling in such a long time.
He was holding her hand, his speech slurring, the tumor taking the simplicity of saying goodbye from him. The others had let them say goodbye to each other; they gave up the last hour they would ever be able to spend with him to her.
She tried not to show him her tears, but he noticed anyway.
"H-hey," he managed to get out. "Don't cry. I don't like crying. I-it contorts the face." He tried to smile, but it came out more grimace-like.
More tears spilled out of her eyes, and her breathing became heavier.
She turned to look out the window, clutching his hand tighter.
"I-I don't want you to go," she whispered. "Please stay. Please," she turned back to him, her eyes puffy and red, nose dripping. "I know it's selfish to ask you to fight longer, and I know that it's even more selfish to out all this pressure on you, but please, please, please stay."
He took in a deep breath and looked at her.
"I would if I c-could," he said slowly. "I wish I could. I don't want to leave you. I-" He cut himself off, breathing deeply for a minute. At last he was able to continue.
"I want to see you in a dress. I had the ring, you know." Again, he tried to smile. "It's in my drawer. I was going to ask you... On the twentieth."
She chocked on a sob.
"But I didn't want you to marry a dead man," he went on, his words slurring. "I want you to be... happy."
She squeezed his hand tighter, the only thing that she could do. She didn't trust herself to speak.
"Promise me," he slurred, "that you'll be happy."
"B-but-"
"Promise."
She shook her head. "I can't- not without you."
He smiled. "So stubborn," he mumbled.
"I love you, Darcybot," she whispered.
"You too, Lizzie," he whispered, his voice weak.
It was the last thing they ever said to one another.