**Diary Entry – June 12th**
I haven’t got much time left… But you came.
Geoffrey had lit his fourth cigarette in a row, but he barely tasted the tobacco or noticed the smoke. He just sat on the old bench outside the flat block, rolling the stub between his fingers, staring stubbornly at the fourth-floor window. That was where Lydia lived.
“What am I even doing here?” he muttered under his breath, flicking the butt toward the overflowing bin.
Missed, as usual. Sighing, he reluctantly got up, trudged over to the bin, scooped up all four stubs, and shoved them deep into the rubbish. Then he slumped back onto the bench, hesitated, almost reached for his last cigarette—then stopped. He might need it later… if he ever felt like smoking again.
To distract himself, he scanned the street. His gaze landed on the cats. Four of them. Perched by the building, necks craned, staring up at that same fourth-floor window.
“Lydia would’ve dragged them all inside by now,” Geoffrey smirked to himself. He knew her well. How many half-dead strays had she nursed back to health—fed, warmed, melted the ice from their eyes? She loved animals… maybe even more than people. And sometimes, that stung. Not for his sake—for humanity’s. Though after thirty years, he’d realised some people really *aren’t* worth loving. Himself included.
Remembering how he’d treated Lydia was agony. He’d left her when she needed him most. Found out she couldn’t have children, and bolted. Dreams of a son, fishing trips, first days at school… all of it had seemed more important than love. Or at least, he’d convinced himself it was. Back then, he was certain he was doing the right thing—for both of them. Now? Now he knew he’d been a coward.
He shut his eyes. Breathed. Opened them. The cats were still there. Waiting. Just like him.
He had to decide—was he going up to see her? 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 illness. Just that.
Then a young woman approached—early twenties.
“Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” Geoffrey answered.
“You’re not Ian, are you? I’m supposed to meet someone here—”
“No. Geoffrey.”
“Oh… You waiting for someone too?”
He gave a half-smile, silent. She lingered, then walked off, glancing back.
Geoffrey stood. “Might as well go in.” He trudged to the entrance, climbed the stairs, pressed the buzzer.
The door swung open to a girl—barely more than a teenager.
“You must be Geoffrey? Come in. Lydia said you might turn up.”
“And you are?”
“Emily. I live next door. Help her out sometimes. Right, I’m off—call if you need anything.”
She vanished. And he… he stood on the threshold. This was the flat he and Lydia had started their lives in. And where it had all ended. Was it ever a home, or just a beginning? He wasn’t sure.
“Geoff, you stuck out there?” Lydia’s voice drifted from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He toed off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair in the hallway mirror. Stepped inside.
“Hi, Lydia,”—his voice cracked.
“Hi… Knew it was you. No one else’d come now.”
“Really no one left?”
“Really. Sit. Take the chair by the window.” She gestured weakly. “Stay with me awhile. Last chance to look at you.”
She tried to sit up—winced, gave up.
“Need help?”
“Don’t… Fine. Help.”
He moved closer, the sharp scent of medicine hitting him. Lifted her gently.
“Ta,” she smiled. “Better.”
“You… you’re really ill?”
“No, Geoffrey. I’m not ill. I’m dying. Just… dying.”
He froze. She said it calmly. Matter-of-fact. Like discussing the weather.
“I don’t—you didn’t say—”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. Wanted to say… thirty years, not a day went by I didn’t think of you.”
Her words tumbled out, frantic, like she feared running out of time. He listened, and something inside him shattered.
“Wanted to say sorry… For not giving you children. I know you dreamed of them. But if I could live it all again—I’d choose you. Every time.”
Geoffrey fought back tears. Tried to smile. Failed.
“*I* should be apologising… For everything.”
“No, you did what you thought was right. But d’you know? I never had anyone else… Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood, grabbed the medical papers from the nightstand. Scanned them, breath catching—diagnosis, metastases, chemo, ineffective…
“Lydia, but there’s surgery—options—”
“Low odds. And living… I don’t want to. Not without you.”
And then he understood. Understood she’d loved him all this time. Understood he’d never stopped either. Which meant he couldn’t just walk away.
He left the flat. Outside, the cats waited. The same four. Staring at him, as if asking, *”Well?”*
He scooped them up—all of them—and went back inside.
“Why’d you bring them?” Lydia blinked.
“Going to heal you,” he grinned. “Too soon for you to go.”
The cats piled onto the bed, purring. And he… he leaned down and kissed her. Like he never had before.
And she cried. From happiness.
The treatment was brutal. But the doctors said, *”The will to live matters most. And support.”*
And Lydia had both now.
She pulled through. Beat it. Lived years more—with Geoffrey, the cats, with love. The real kind.
Might sound like a fairy tale. But it happened.
Because true love—and cats—really do have magic in them.
**Lesson learned: Running away costs more than staying. And sometimes, the bravest thing is just coming back.**
