His Final Wish Was Never Me

The day my boyfriend almost died, I found his final wishes. Two hundred and fourteen letters, to be exact.

The dates spanned six years, but the beneficiary remained hauntingly consistent. They weren’t for me. They were for his first love.

I stood in that sterile hospital corridor, my blood turning to ice. I couldn’t even scream at him; he was lying in the ICU, a mess of tubes and wires, still lost in a coma.

"Mr. Whitaker has a thing for extreme sports—the more dangerous, the better," his assistant, Ben, explained softly, his eyes refusing to meet mine.