She had lost everything for him. Her family, her friends, her career, her dreams. She followed him across the world, supporting his ambitions, sharing his joys and sorrows, loving him unconditionally.

She thought they would grow old together, happy and content. She thought they had a bond that nothing could break. She thought she was the luckiest woman alive.

She was right.

He never left her, not even when he was diagnosed with a terminal illness, not even when he was in pain and suffering, not even when he had nothing left to give. He loved her with everything he had, everything he was, everything he could. He gave her his all.

She stayed with him, through thick and thin, through good and bad, through life and death. She cared for him, comforted him, cherished him. She gave him her all.

They spent their days in a small, cozy cottage, surrounded by nature, enjoying each other's company. They spent their nights in a peaceful sleep, holding each other, dreaming of each other. They wished they could live forever, they wished they could heal each other, they wished they could stay together.

And they did.

They loved each other still.