Kevin started getting sick.
At first, it was little things.
Dizziness.
Coughing.
Fatigue.
He blamed stress.
And cheap hotdogs.
Then one afternoon during a performance—
he collapsed.
Children applauded because they thought it was part of the act.
It was not.
Hospital rooms had a way of making everything honest.
The doctor spoke gently.
Too gently.
That was always bad.
There were words like "serious."
"Late-stage."
"Treatment."
"Not much time."
Kevin nodded like someone discussing weather.
Maya cried.
He hated that.
Not the crying.
The helplessness.
He had spent his whole life trying to be noticed.
Now all he wanted was normal.
More bad coffee.
More stupid birthday parties.
More stupid ducks.
Mr. Doyle, his landlord, visited and awkwardly brought soup.
Officer Ramirez stood silently for ten minutes and said:
"You were always weird."
Kevin smiled.
"Thanks."
Derek visited too.
Brought flowers.
Ugly ones.
"I asked for the saddest bouquet."
"Perfect."
Kevin laughed.
Then coughed blood.
Which really killed the mood.
One night, Maya sat beside him.
Quiet.
She asked, "Are you scared?"
Kevin looked out the window.
"Yeah."
Pause.
"But for the first time in my life… people would notice if I was gone."
She held his hand.
And neither of them said the word goodbye.
Because saying it made it real.