I’ve never lied to her about a thing. Not a single other thing. Not even, when we were dating, and I got drunk at a party and made out with another girl. I told her, the very next day. She broke up with me, and I didn’t see her for two and a half weeks, until she got sick of me sending her a dozen roses every day, box after box of chocolate, pages and pages of college-ruled notebook paper with “I’m sorry” written on it a hundred times. Mixtapes burned onto CDs of handpicked songs. She finally realized, somehow, that it had been a stupid drunken accident. Honestly, I’d been so blitzed I’d thought it was Nadia. When I realized it was someone else, I stopped, threw up, and ran away. Stupid. But an accident. Not an intentional betrayal. I’d never do that.

I hadn’t lied then.

I told her it was my fault the time I got into a car accident. I’d been messing with the radio and rear-ended someone.

I face the truth, no matter what.

But this is…

This is bigger than that.

I have to protect her. If she knew I had cancer, it would kill her right along with me. Her force of will is exactly that powerful. And I can’t handle that. Can’t have that on my conscience. I know she’ll be angry. She won’t understand. Hopefully, she’ll never know. But if somehow the worst comes to pass, by the time she finds out, what’s done will be done. She’ll have anger to deal with as well as grief, but at least she’ll be alive.

At a red light, two blocks from home, that’s what I think: at least she’ll be alive.

And it guts me.

She’ll be alive.

After I’m gone—if I’m gone—she’ll be alive.

The light turns green, but my foot is stuck on the brake. Horns blare, shouts are muffled and dim. I can’t swallow, can’t breathe. Force myself off the road, into the parking lot of a KFC.

She’ll be alive.

I’ll be gone.

I’ve never really allowed myself to even consider that truth.