Chapter 23: Last Words, First Love

In the end, it wasn’t the arguments that echoed loudest.
Not the misunderstandings.
Not even the betrayal.

What lingered—
what remained after the body grew thin and the eyes lost focus—
was her name.

Not yelled.
Not written in frustration.
But spoken softly… like a prayer.

“Princess.”

Even when he couldn’t finish a sentence,
when the tumor made thoughts stutter and sentences fracture,
he never forgot how to say her name.

That’s what real love does—
it carves itself into the bones.

He used to wonder what her last words to him would be.
Not the last text or message,
but the last thing she would ever say to his face,
looking into his eyes—
knowing the time was short.

Would she say:
“I love you still”?
“I’m sorry”?
“Thank you”?
Or would it be silence, broken only by breath?

He never demanded closure.
He just hoped—
that when it mattered most—
she would let the wall fall
and speak from her soul, not her fear.

But Josh had already chosen his last words.
He practiced them often,
not to be dramatic,
but to make sure he would say them clearly—
even if his mouth betrayed him:

“You are my first love.
My wife, in spirit if not in law.
My Chava.
My home.”

And then,
the three words that lived deeper than I love you:

“I see you.”

Because for all the pain they lived through,
the deepest tragedy would be if she ever forgot:
that someone in this world truly saw her—
beyond her armor,
beyond her choices,
beyond her silence.

Josh saw the little girl who just wanted to be chosen.
He saw the woman who didn’t know how to rest.
He saw the mother who fought harder than she let anyone see.

And he loved her for all of it—
not despite it.

If she never speaks again,
he won’t carry resentment.

But if she does,
if her voice breaks open even once to say:
“I know now. I understand.”

Then he’ll die in peace.
Because he lived fully.
He gave fully.
He loved without backup plans.

And somewhere in her—
he knew—
that love still lived.