4 Minutes to Say Goodbye

1st Minute

I hear the slow hum of the machines before I see you.

Your hand is colder than I remember. But I hold it anyway, because it still feels like home.

I don’t know how I made it into this room without falling apart. Maybe I already did—in the hallway, when the nurse quietly said, “You’ll have four minutes. Take your time.”

Four minutes.

I sit beside you, even though you don’t move. Your chest rises only because the machine says so. Tubes run across your face, stealing away the warmth I once knew like the back of my hand.

“Noah,” I whisper, brushing the hair from your forehead. “Why now?”

My voice trembles, but I force it out. “Do you remember the first time you cooked for me? That disaster you called carbonara?”

You would’ve laughed right now. That throaty, half-embarrassed laugh. You burned the bacon, forgot the cream, and still managed to charm me into pretending it was delicious.

You always made me laugh through the mess. That was your magic—turning bad days into bearable ones. Silences into comfort.

I think of the little moments—the burnt toast breakfasts, the late-night ice cream runs, the quiet walks without words. They were never grand, but they were ours. And now they're memories that fit in a space smaller than this sterile room.

2nd Minute

The second minute hurts worse than the first.

I want to scream at someone—at you—for not waking up. For driving too fast that night. For forgetting your seatbelt. For the late-night pizza craving that led to this.

But all I do is lean forward and rest my forehead against your shoulder.

“We were supposed to grow old together,” I murmur. “You promised me grey hairs and grumpy mornings.”

Seven years. That’s how long we lasted in our own little bubble—through graduation, first jobs, apartment hunts, Sunday grocery runs, midnight confessions, lazy mornings, and surprise road trips.

But we never got to the next part.

I glance at your hand again. The one that should’ve worn the ring I’ve hidden in my drawer for months now. I had planned everything. Even practiced how I’d ask.

We talked about wedding songs in whispers under blankets. About what we'd name our future dog—Marshmallow, after what you used to call me. We’d even looked at cottages in the countryside for when city life became too loud.

You told me once, during a thunderstorm, that home wasn’t a place. “It’s a person,” you said. “And you’re mine.”

But I never got to say the words back.

3rd Minute

I straighten up, because the nurse is watching. Maybe she’s wondering why I’m not breaking down. But my heart already did that last night, when the doctor looked at me and said, “There’s no brain activity. He’s gone, Lia.”

Gone.

And yet, here you are. Looking like you’re just sleeping. Like you’ll blink and say, “Why are you crying, babe?”

I laugh softly, even as tears slip down.

“You always made fun of how I cried during movies. Even the animated ones,” I say, gripping your hand tighter. “But look at me now, huh? Can’t stop crying.”

You’d wipe my cheeks with your thumb and call me a marshmallow. That was your word for me.

I can still hear your voice in my head. That soothing tone you'd use when I was anxious. The way you'd hum under your breath while brushing your teeth. The way you'd sing badly—on purpose—just to make me laugh.

A warm breeze moves through the window. I imagine it’s you—somehow, in some small way—still with me. Still listening.

And that’s when I remember.

The journal.

That stupid, black leather-bound journal you used to scribble in and never let me see. You called it your time capsule.

“Don’t open it till you need to,” you once said.

I never did. I always thought we had time.

4th Minute

This is it.

The machines still beep. Steady. Cold. Unchanging. But I know they’ll stop soon.

I lean in close, resting my head near your heart, or where it should’ve been beating.

And I whisper, “I read it just now.”

The journal. I brought it with me—I don’t even remember grabbing it. But when the nurse left me alone with you, I opened it, right here, with your hand in mine. And page after page, I saw the things you never said aloud.

How you struggled with your mental health. How you always feared you weren’t enough for me. That you thought I’d one day leave you behind.

You never told me.

I never knew you carried all that weight.

There were entries about our first fight, how it scared you more than you let on. About your doubts, your dreams, your desperate need to be better for me—even when you already were everything.

And on the last page… the truth.

You were planning to propose.

You had booked a weekend trip to that lakeside cabin we always talked about. You had chosen a ring—a simple band with a sapphire in the middle because you said it reminded you of my eyes.

You even wrote out what you were going to say.

"I know I'm not perfect. But loving you has always been the easiest thing in my life. If you'll let me, I want to make you laugh for the next seventy years."

I press my fist to my mouth to hold back the sob.

You were going to ask me. And now I’ll never get to say yes.

I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, you wrote. I was waiting for the perfect moment. I didn’t realize they don’t always come.

I choke on a breath. “You didn’t need perfect. You already had me.”

If only I’d opened that journal sooner. If only I’d noticed the signs. If only time worked differently.

The door opens.

The nurse nods gently.

It’s time.

I kiss your forehead one last time. “I love you,” I whisper.

And as they turn off the machines, I hear silence swallow the room.

But in my heart, I still hear your laugh.