Borrowed Time

It was at the hospital café, somewhere between bland coffee and waiting room silence, that Noah first saw her.

She was laughing — not the polite kind, but real, head-thrown-back laughter that made him pause in the middle of stirring sugar into his tea. In a place built on uncertainty, she looked like certainty.

Her name was Lila.

They met again two days later in the elevator. She asked if he was visiting someone. He said no — he was the patient.

Lila didn’t flinch. “Me too,” she smiled.

From that moment, they borrowed time from life and gave it to each other.

They walked the rooftop garden between chemo sessions. Swapped books with scribbled notes in the margins. Counted the stars from her hospital bed. Wrote a list of things they would do if — if they ever got out of that place.

The list wasn’t long.

Real pizza in Brooklyn.

A walk in Central Park during fall.

Dance in the rain without caring who watched.

Hold hands without IV lines between them.

Doctors said not to hope too much. But love is stubborn. And so were they.

They didn’t talk about the numbers. Not the counts. Not the odds. Only the minutes. And how to fill them.

When Lila’s condition worsened, Noah asked her what she wanted most.

She whispered, “To be remembered with joy, not sadness.”

The night before she slipped into unconsciousness, he took her hand and danced. No music. No rhythm. Just his arms around her, the slow shuffle of feet and silent promises between them.

She passed with a smile.

A year later, Noah stood in Central Park as the leaves turned amber around him. He had a notebook in one hand — their list, scribbled and worn. In the other, a pizza slice from that Brooklyn place she loved.

He sat on a bench. Looked up at the sky.

“I’m still dancing,” he said softly. “Still remembering.”

Because some loves are too brief to be called a lifetime — but too deep to ever be forgotten.