"I know you don't believe me. I know you think I'm joking."
"Do I?"
"You'll probably be married by then, but when I finish, before shaving, cutting my hair, or even getting a shower, I will ride to your door and ask you to marry me."
Silence.
"I know it'll be too late, but some things just have to be done."
"You're silly."
"I know."
"Here, happy birthday," she gave him a handmade book.
"My life before you," he whispered the title.
She had been working on the book for the past five years. Among its pages, polaroid pictures of random useless things, pictures of a younger version of herself surrounded by younger versions of family and friends, love letters never sent, pink, green, red, blue, and black journal entries, drawings, hearts, unicorns, and stars, and the photo booth picture they took of themselves on their third date in the last page.
She could see his heart smiling for the first time in a long time. They dived into a deep embrace. Tears and smiles.
In bed she felt naked, empty, relieved. She stared at him all night while listening to her loud and incisive heartbeat.
He had not notice her shoes were not on his way to the bed as they always were.
The ambulance driver drove as fast as he could through the still busy streets, even though it was already late. When they finally arrived to the packed emergency room he was covered in love and still bleeding despite of the effort of the paramedics. He was bleeding love all over. The doctors could not help him. He urgently needed a transfusion but his love type was unique. They could just helped him die. It was painless.
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