They say your life plays before your eyes when you're about to die.

But it didn't play like a film. It came back in pieces—soft, sharp, out of order. A flash of light through a cracked window. The sound of boots in the rain. The feel of someone's shoulder pressed against mine in silence. Names I hadn't spoken aloud in years. Smiles I thought I'd forgotten.

I didn't see glory. I didn't see triumph.

I saw the dream—mine, fragile and stubborn. I chased it like it could fix me, like it would make everything make sense. And for a while, it did. We built something. Not perfect. Not safe. But real. Ours.

Then came the breaking.

Now, as everything slows, I don't feel fear. Just weight. The kind that settles in your chest and never leaves. The kind you carry when you're the one left to remember.

If this is the end, let it be quiet. Let it be honest. Because the story was never mine alone. It belonged to all of us.

And even if the world forgets—I won't.

I tightened my grip, feeling the heartbeat beneath me. Weak. Fragile. But there—a flicker of hope.

"You'll be fine. You'll be fine. I know it," I whispered, as the world slowly faded with each passing breath.