Last Shot at Love

"Ryan, I'm dying. One month left. Can you handle my corpse?"
Three years ago, we fell in love in a Baghdad field hospital.
Three years later, I'm waiting to die in a shabby Manhattan apartment.
He thought I betrayed him for money, hated me for three whole years.
I thought he'd never forgive me, buried the truth for three whole years.
When the diagnosis arrived, when the death countdown began, I finally found the courage to dial the number I'd blocked for three years.
"You deserve to die." That was the first thing he said when he answered.
But then, why did he show up at my door thirty minutes after hanging up?
Why did he break down when he saw my parents' death certificates?
when the truth finally surfaces, there's no time left.
Is one month enough to say a proper goodbye?