**Diary Entry – 18th September**
I haven’t got long left… But you came.
James smoked his fourth cigarette in a row but barely tasted the tobacco or smelled the ash. He just sat on the old bench outside the flats, twisting the butt between his fingers, stubbornly staring at the fourth-floor window. That’s where Lydia lived.
*”What the hell am I doing here?”* he muttered, flicking the cigarette toward the overflowing bin.
Like always—missed. Sighing, he reluctantly stood, picked up all four stubs, and shoved them deep into the bin. Then he returned to the bench, sat for a while, thought better of lighting his last smoke. Might need it later… if he even wanted it.
To distract himself, he scanned the street. His gaze landed on four cats perched near the building, necks stretched, eyes fixed on that same fourth-floor window.
*”Lydia would’ve dragged every last one inside by now,”* James thought with a grim smile. He knew her too well. How many half-dead strays had she nursed back to health? Fed, warmed, thawed the ice in their eyes? She loved animals—maybe more than people. Sometimes, it stung. Not for himself, but for humanity. Though after thirty years, he’d learned the hard way: some people aren’t worth loving. Himself included.
Remembering how he’d left Lydia was agony. He’d abandoned her when she needed him most. When they found out she couldn’t have children, he ran. Dreams of a son, fishing trips, first days at school—all of it had seemed more important than love. Or maybe he’d just convinced himself it was. Back then, he thought he was doing right by them both. Now? Now he knew he’d been a coward.
He closed his eyes. Breathed. Opened them. The cats still waited. Just like him.
He had to decide—go up or walk away. After all these years. After everything.
Her message echoed in his head: *”Forgive me. Wanted to see you one last time…”* No mention of illness. Just that.
A young woman, barely twenty, approached.
“Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” James answered.
“You’re not Oliver, are you? I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
“No. James.”
“Oh… Are you waiting for someone too?”
He smirked, silent. She lingered, then left, glancing back.
James stood. *”Might as well go in.”* He trudged upstairs, pressed the buzzer.
A girl answered—just a kid.
“You must be James? Come in. Lydia mentioned you might visit.”
“And you are?”
“Emma. I live next door. Help her out. I’ll be off—she’s got my number if needed.”
Emma slipped away. And he… he just stood there, frozen. This was the flat where he and Lydia had started their life. Where he’d ended it. Was it ever a home, or just a beginning he’d ruined? He couldn’t tell.
“James, what’re you hovering for?” Lydia’s voice from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He kicked off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair, stepped inside.
“Hey, Lydia,” his voice cracked.
“Hey… Knew it was you. No one else’s coming.”
“Really? No one?”
“Not a soul. Sit—take the chair by the window. Stay with me. Last chance to look at you.”
She tried to rise, winced, gave up.
“Need help?”
“Don’t… Actually, yeah. Help me.”
He moved closer, the scent of medicine thick in the air. Supported her.
“Thanks,” she smiled faintly. “Better.”
“Are you… seriously ill?”
“No, James. Not ill. Dying. Just… dying.”
He froze. She said it calmly, like discussing the weather.
“I don’t understand. You never mentioned—”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. Wanted to say… thirty years, and not a day’s gone by without me thinking of you.”
Her words spilled out, hurried, desperate. His chest ached.
“I wanted to apologise… for never giving you children. I know you dreamed of them. But if I could live it all again—I’d choose you. Every time.”
James choked back tears. Tried to smile. Failed.
*”I’m* the one who should apologise. For everything.”
“No. You did what you thought was right. But you know… I never had anyone else. Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood, snatched the medical papers from the nightstand. Scanned them—diagnosis, metastases, chemo, futile.
“Lydia, there’s surgery… chances—”
“Slim. And living? I don’t want to. Not without you.”
Then he understood. She’d loved him all this time. And he—he’d never stopped either. Which meant he couldn’t walk away now.
He left the flat. The cats still waited outside, staring as if to say, *”Well?”*
He scooped all four into his arms. Marched back inside.
“Why’d you bring them?” Lydia frowned.
“To heal you,” he grinned. “Too soon for you to go.”
The cats clambered onto the bed, purring. And he… he leaned down, kissed her. Properly. For the first time in decades.
She cried. From happiness.
The road was brutal. The doctors said, “Will to live matters most. And support.”
Now, Lydia had both.
She fought. Survived. Lived years more—with James, the cats, real love.
Sounds like a fairy tale? It wasn’t.
Because love—and cats—really do work miracles.
**Lesson learned: Running solves nothing. Staying? That’s where the magic is.**
