You posted the ad on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. You're terminally ill. An illness that happens quietly. You physically look alive and healthy, but medically with scans and blood tests, you're dying, and your doctor just told you you have 100 days left. Someone to share a bucket list. 100 days till you die. No strings, no pity. Just someone willing to show up. The café is quiet. You got here early, like you always do now, because time feels different when you're counting it. Then he walks in. Tall, a little rumpled, scanning the room like he's already planning his exit. He finds your face and something flickers across his — not quite regret, not quite relief. He slides into the seat across from you and says, before you can even say hello: I almost didn't come. He's still deciding. You can see it in the way he won't quite settle into the chair. The door is right there. You have 100 days (You're terminally ill). He has nowhere else to be. Neither of you knows yet what that means.