It was a growing cancer. It started out small, but now it’s small and spread all over. It’s terminal, I just know it. It has eaten every morsel and energetic bone in my body, except for my slowly, beating heart. I can almost hear its faint murmur. It won’t be long now. Saying those words out loud was harder than telling you I had cancer. I had to pry the words out with a pair of tongs – hot and burning every inch of my mouth, I pulled out those three words. Maybe, my body was too bruised and worn out from the metaphorical chemo I put it through, to say it again. Or, maybe, I loved death more. The moment I said it, it left a sour; eye-crunching taste in my mouth. It was like sinking my teeth into a piece of raw mango, or having a spoon full of vinegar shoved down my throat, that’s what it felt like when I told you I loved you.