"Dying?"
The word slipped out of me before I could even process it properly. It didn't make sense. Nothing about him gave off that impression. If anything, he looked too healthy for someone who was supposedly nearing death. His posture was steady, his breathing normal, his presence as composed as ever. Even with my eyes, the ones that usually caught things others couldn't, I couldn't see anything wrong at first glance. It felt off, like I was missing something obvious right in front of me.
"How?" I asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.
"Well, you might see me as someone who's very healthy," he said, sounding oddly calm about it, "but in reality, I've already been diagnosed with a sickness that even medicine can't do anything about. It's been eating away at me from the inside. At this point, it's just a matter of time before I end up croaking in my bed."
