When I thought death was coming, I said goodbye.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just honestly.

I sent Ryan a message.

I sent Stefan one too.

I told Ryan that I knew his secrets — all of them — and that I’d take them with me. That I’d never tell a soul. Ever. Not out of loyalty or love or leverage, but because some things are meant to end quietly, without damage trailing behind them.

I didn’t want loose ends.

I didn’t want unfinished harm.

Then I spoke to my doctor.

I asked him to let me die with dignity.

Not in a bed.

Not under fluorescent lights.

Not surrounded by alarms and plastic and fear.

I told him what I wanted.

The beach.

The sunrise.

The stars.

I didn’t ask for miracles.

I asked for meaning.

He didn’t answer straight away. He thought about it. Properly. And then he said yes.

I hugged him.

When we got to Mum’s, everything happened quietly. Like the house understood the weight of what we were doing. Blankets. Jumpers. Duvets. Layers of warmth gathered with care, not panic.

Then we got in the car.

And we drove to Whitby.

The road was dark and still. No rush. No urgency. Just the steady movement forward, like the world hadn’t noticed how close I’d felt to the edge.

When we arrived, the air hit my lungs — cold, sharp, real. The kind of air that makes you feel alive even when your body is struggling. The sea stretched out in front of us, endless and patient. Stars scattered across the sky like they’d been waiting.

I wrapped myself in blankets and stood there breathing — really breathing — as much as I could.

No machines.

No beeping.

No fear shouting in my ears.

Just the sound of waves.

The promise of sunrise.

And the quiet knowledge that if this was the moment, it would be mine.

I didn’t feel dramatic.

I didn’t feel ready.

I just felt present.

And maybe that’s what dignity actually is.

Not giving up.

Not holding on blindly.

 

 

Enough 

Enough

I wanted to ask Ryan to come.

The thought passed through me gently — not desperate, not frantic — just there. A flicker. A what if. He would have said no anyway. Or worse, yes for the wrong reasons. And I knew that.

We weren’t anything.

Not partners.

Not lovers.

Not even what we used to be.

So I bit my tongue.

Because wanting someone doesn’t give you the right to pull them into your hardest moments. Because closeness that isn’t earned — or safe — only leaves more wounds behind.

Instead, I had my family.

My mum.

My brother.

The people who didn’t hesitate.

The people who showed up without being asked.

The people who didn’t need explanations or labels to justify being there.

They wrapped me in blankets. They stood beside me in the cold. They shared the silence without trying to fill it. They didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep — they just stayed.

And I realised something important, standing there by the sea:

Wanting someone doesn’t mean you need them.

Missing someone doesn’t mean they belong in your present.

I didn’t need romantic love in that moment. I needed solid love. The kind that doesn’t leave. The kind that doesn’t question your truth. The kind that holds your hand without asking for anything in return.

My family were enough.

They were more than enough.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like something was missing. I felt complete — even in fear, even in pain, even not knowing what came next.

I let Ryan stay where he belonged — in the past, in memory, in something that mattered once but couldn’t come with me any further.

And that wasn’t loss.

 

The Sunrise in Whitby

The sky didn’t rush it.

That’s the first thing I noticed.

After everything — the alarms, the breathlessness, the fear that had been screaming for days — the morning came slowly. Patiently. Like it wasn’t aware of how close I’d felt to the edge only hours before.

We stood there wrapped in blankets and jumpers, the cold biting at our faces, the sea dark and restless below us. The stars were still out, refusing to leave just yet. I liked that — night and day sharing the sky for a while, neither in a hurry.

I breathed in the salt air as deeply as my body would allow.

Each breath still hurt.

But it was real air.

Not filtered. Not forced.

Mine.

The horizon began to change almost imperceptibly. Black softened to deep blue. Blue thinned into grey. Then, like someone brushing colour gently across the edge of the world, the first hint of pink appeared.

No drama.

No announcement.

Just light, quietly arriving.

I watched it happen, completely still, terrified that if I moved I might break something fragile. Mum stood beside me, close enough that I could feel her warmth through all the layers. No words. None were needed.

The sun finally broke through — a thin line at first, then more — spilling gold across the water. The sea caught it instantly, throwing it back in ripples and flashes like it was celebrating.

And I cried.

Not the broken sobbing I’d done in hospital.

Not the panicked crying of fear.

Just tears.

Because I was there.

Because I could see it.

Because I was still breathing.

In that moment, nothing else existed. Not cancer. Not men. Not regret. Not the future. Just light meeting water, and me standing in the middle of it, wrapped in love I didn’t have to question.

I didn’t ask for answers.

I didn’t make promises.

I didn’t bargain with the universe.

I just watched the sun rise and let myself be part of the world again.

If that had been my last morning, it would have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

And knowing that — standing there as the day began — felt like a quiet kind of grace I’ll never forget