Death Is My Gift to Her

The night Helen Kerr's first love proposes, I stand on the 33rd-floor terrace, holding my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis.

Through the glass, I watch the man drop to one knee. They exchange rings, and she slides the ring meant for me onto his finger.

I stay hidden outside in the excruciating pain, refusing to ruin their moment.

Then Helen spots me.

There is no panic or guilt, just pure disgust in her eyes.

She sneers, gestures toward the ledge, and mouths through the window, "Jump, if you're gonna jump. Stop acting just to ruin my night. If you actually die, maybe I'll believe you."