I walked into room 506 in the hospital, flowers in my hands. I spotted him, lying in the bed as always. There were bags under his eyes, his breathing was heavy, and his hair was all gone.

Nevertheless, as he heard me open the door, he looked up at me, and his face beamed with a smile. I smiled back, but I knew that my smile wasn't as true as his.

"Hey darling," he said, his voice breaking at the end.

"Hi," I replied, leaning down to kiss his cheek and setting the flowers on the table next to him.

As I stood back up, he asked, his voice barely past a whisper, "How was your day?"

"Good, yours?"

He shrugged and said laughingly, "Been better."

I laughed back nervously. It used to be our little joke, a way to lighten the tension. Whenever the nurse would ask Kyle how he was doing, I'd roll my eyes and mouth to him the words: "What does she think?" Because, of course, he wasn't that great. He would sarcastically reply, "Been better."

Every day, for an entire month, went by like this. After I finished work, I would drive to the hospital to go through this dreary routine. Sit beside him. Say the stupid joke. Bring him his water. Cover his feet. Check his email.

Wake him up when the doctor or nurse comes in. Wake him up when the food is here. Wake him up when one of his friends came to visit.

And then I started getting bored. Bored of coming here every day, bored of smelling the medicines, bored of smelling the hospital itself. Bored of the routine and yearning for change.

No, I wasn't bored. I was disgusted.

I couldn't stand seeing Kyle, who long ago had that long, flowing blonde hair, become completely hairless. I couldn't stand the bags under his eyes that increased day by day, the pain he complained about, the shakiness and utter weakness of his body—this body that once belonged to an athlete. The athlete whom I fell in love with and agreed to marry.

I couldn't stand watching those deep blue eyes lose their sparkle.

I couldn't stand the scent of his cologne being replaced by the scent of the chemotherapy.

So I stopped coming. I stopped visiting. And, most shamefully, I stopped loving him.

But now that I am back, everything seems to go normally. It was as if I had never left. Our little joke was still in place, our greeting still the same…

But in my heart, I could feel something was different. And it pained me that I could not admit it to Kyle. It's not only out of weakness that I refrain from telling him. It is also out of kindness. Out of mercy and compassion.

If I tell him that I no longer love him, he may give up the fight. Decide that there no longer is a purpose to live. Realize that after his friends and family had left him, now his fiancée is leaving him. Conclude that his last ounce of hope is forever gone, and with it gone his purpose for life.

I wish it were otherwise.

But I just want to keep him happy, happy and hopeful, until his dying day.

This is the least I can do. In my head run a thousand memories. I remember myself bringing out my phone from my purse, quickly dialing his number, crying to him that my tire is flat and that I need help. I remember myself burning my finger while cooking and him kissing it, placing ice over it. I remember myself falling and him lifting me up. I remember myself weakening and him strengthening me.

And then I remember Kyle calling me from the hospital, telling me the bad news that still lingers in the air till today, and me replying, "I'll call you later."

I look over at him. His chest is rising and falling, rising and falling. His breath is gentle, and suddenly I am overcome by even more memories. I remember us lying under the night sky, his breath exactly the same, his chest's rise and fall exactly the same.

But the situation is different!

I shook my head, burying my hands in my hair. Stop feeling guilty! Stop feeling guilty! Stop feeling guilty!

Tears rolled down my eyes, but I quickly wiped them as his eyes slid open.

"Thanks for dropping by today," he said.

"Welcome," I gulped.

"I love you."

"I love you too," I said. Lied. Looked down at him, straight into those dull eyes, and lied.

I just hope the day he dies comes sooner. I don't want to lie to him anymore.

I'm sorry.