I don’t have much time left… But you came.
Terry lit his fourth cigarette in a row, but he barely tasted the tobacco or noticed the smoke. He just sat on the old bench by the entrance, twisting the stub between his fingers, stubbornly staring up at the fourth-floor window. That’s where Lucy lived.
“What the hell am I even doing here?” he muttered under his breath before flicking the cigarette butt toward the overflowing bin.
As usual—missed. With a sigh, he reluctantly got up, walked over, picked up all four stubs, and shoved them deep into the bin. Then he returned to the bench, sat, thought for a bit, reached for his last smoke—then changed his mind. Best save it… if he even felt like it later.
To distract himself, he looked around until his eyes landed on the cats. Four of them. Perched by the building, necks stretched, eyes fixed on that same fourth-floor window.
“Lucy would’ve dragged them all inside by now,” Terry smirked. He knew her. How many half-dead strays had she nursed back to health? Fed, warmed, thawed the ice in their eyes. She loved animals… maybe even more than people. And sometimes that stung. Not for himself—for humanity. Though after thirty years, he’d realised some folks just weren’t worth loving. Himself included.
Remembering how he’d treated Lucy was agony. He’d walked out when she needed him most. Found out she couldn’t have kids, and he bolted. Dreams of a son, fishing trips, first days at school… All that had mattered more than love. Or so he’d thought. Back then, he’d been sure it was the right call. Better for both of them. Now? Now he knew he’d just been a coward.
He closed his eyes. Breathed. Opened them. The cats were still there. Waiting. Just like him.
He had to decide—go up or not. After all these years. After everything.
Her message echoed in his head: *”Forgive me. Wanted to see you one last time…”* Not a word about sickness. Just that.
Then a girl approached—young, maybe twenty.
“Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” Terry said.
“You’re not Ian, are you? I was supposed to meet someone here—”
“No. Terry.”
“Oh… You waiting for someone too?”
He chuckled dryly, not answering. She lingered a moment before leaving, glancing back.
Terry stood. *”Might as well go up now I’m here.”* He walked slowly to the entrance, climbed the stairs, pressed the buzzer.
The door opened to a young woman—barely more than a girl.
“You must be Terry? Come in. Lucy said you might visit.”
“And you are?”
“Emily. I live next door. Help her out. Anyway, I’m off—she’s got my number if you need anything.”
Emily slipped out. And he… he stood frozen. This was the flat he and Lucy had started their life in. Where it had all fallen apart. Was it ever a home, or just a starting point? He didn’t know.
“Terry, what’re you lingering for?” Lucy’s voice called from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He toed off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair in the hallway mirror. Stepped inside.
“Hi, Lucy,”—his voice cracked.
“Hi… Knew it was you straight away. No one else’s coming.”
“No one at all?”
“No one. Sit—take the chair by the window.” She gestured weakly. “Stay with me. One last look.”
She tried to prop herself up—winced and gave up.
“Need help?”
“Don’t… Actually, yeah. Help.”
He moved closer, breathing in the sharp scent of medicine, and steadied her.
“Ta,” Lucy smiled. “That’s better.”
“You… you’re really ill?”
“No, Terry. Not ill. I’m dying. Just… dying.”
He froze. She said it calmly. Matter-of-fact. Like discussing the weather.
“I don’t—you never mentioned—”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. To tell you… not a day’s gone by in thirty years I haven’t thought of you.”
The words tumbled out like she was racing time. His chest ached listening.
“Wanted to say sorry… For not giving you children. I knew you wanted them. But if I could live it all again—I’d choose you. Every time.”
Terry’s throat tightened. He tried to smile—failed.
*”I’m* the one who should be sorry… for everything.”
“No, you did what you thought was right. But y’know… I never had anyone else. Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood, grabbed the medical papers from the bedside table. Scanned them, breath ragged—diagnosis, metastases, chemo, ineffective…
“Lucy, there’s surgery… Even a small chance—”
“Too small. And living? Don’t much fancy it. Not without you.”
Then he understood. She’d loved him all this time. And he’d never stopped loving her. Which meant he couldn’t just walk away.
He left the flat. The cats were still outside. Those same four. Staring at him like, *”Well?”*
He scooped them up—all of them—and carried them back inside.
“Why’d you bring them?” Lucy frowned.
“We’re fixing you,” he grinned. “Too soon for you to go.”
The cats promptly curled up on her bed, purring. And he… he leaned down and kissed her. Properly. Like he never had before.
She cried then. Happy tears.
The treatment was brutal. But the doctors said, *”Will to live matters most. And support.”*
Now Lucy had both.
She pulled through. Beat it. Lived years more—with Terry, with the cats, with love. Real love.
Might sound like a fairy tale. But it happened.
Because real love and cats? They work bloody miracles.
