Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE: THE DIAGNOSIS
Rain slid down the glass in thin, weeping rivers.
The sound of the clock in Dr. Abby Griffin’s office ticked like a hammer to the chest. It echoed in the quiet, louder than it had any right to be — an unforgiving beat that marked time in seconds too sharp to ignore.
Anya Woods sat on the edge of the beige leather chair, fingers laced tightly in her lap, knuckles white. She hadn’t spoken in three minutes. Abby hadn’t, either.
And outside, the rain just kept falling.
“Say it again,” Anya whispered, her voice barely holding shape.
Abby flinched. She’d known Anya since she was nineteen — bold, stubborn, already writing songs that could crack hearts open. Abby had watched her rise, become a legend, fall in love, and raise a daughter. And now they sat across from each other like strangers, bound by something holy and cruel.
Abby’s mouth moved. Then closed. Then tried again.
“It’s called MHC-12. It’s... rare. But aggressive. Neuromuscular. And it’s moving fast.”
Anya blinked slowly, eyes fixed on a single crack in the floor tile. “How long?”
Abby inhaled like she was drowning. “A year. Maybe a little more if we start now. But Anya… you’re already symptomatic. The numbness in your fingers. The fatigue. That fainting spell at rehearsal — those weren’t isolated. They’re part of a pattern.”
Anya laughed. A breathless, strangled sound.
“A year,” she said, like it was someone else’s story. “A fucking year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Silence. Then Anya slowly stood up, one hand gripping the chair for balance as her knees shook beneath her jeans.
“You can’t tell Raven.”
Abby looked up. “Anya—”
“I’m serious. Not yet. Not until I… figure things out.”
“She’s your wife,” Abby whispered. “You can’t go through this alone.”
Anya’s mouth twisted like the word wife had burned. She glanced at the wedding ring still on her finger. A delicate band, gold, simple, chosen by Raven on a hill overlooking the sea three years ago.
“She won’t survive it,” Anya said. “You don’t know her like I do.”
Abby didn’t argue. She just looked older than Anya had ever seen her.
“She’ll try to save me. She’ll destroy herself trying.”
Anya turned away, her voice cracking now. “And Tris… she needs her. More than she’ll ever need me.”
The room swam for a moment — soft around the edges, like the world itself wanted to look away.
Abby stood, placed a small envelope on the desk, and slid it toward her.
“In case you change your mind.”
Anya didn’t touch it.
She left without a goodbye.
The rain had stopped by the time Anya reached the parking lot.
She sat in the driver’s seat of her car for ten full minutes, staring at the baby seat in the back.
There was a purple stuffed bunny strapped beside it — one ear chewed, stitched lovingly by Raven after Tris had cried herself to sleep the night it tore.
The sight of it broke something open.
Anya doubled forward, forehead against the steering wheel, and sobbed silently until her ribs ached.
That night, Raven slept beside her like always — arm slung over Anya’s stomach, face buried in her neck, warm breath against her collarbone.
They used to tangle limbs for hours, talking until 2 a.m. about Tris’s favorite words or whether to repaint the nursery. Tonight, Raven was quiet. Dreaming.
Anya watched her.
She let her fingers ghost across Raven’s dark curls, brushing back a strand from her cheek.
How do I leave this?
How do I break her?
Anya closed her eyes.
She imagined her daughter’s laugh.
She imagined Raven holding Tris on her shoulders.
She imagined a world where Raven lived to be eighty. Where Tris got married. Where there were birthdays. First days of school. Letters from college.
She imagined it all happening without her.
And she knew what she had to do.
The next day, she called Clarke.
They met at the greenhouse — a place untouched by pain. Rows of lavender, eucalyptus, jasmine. The scent wrapped around them like a lie.
Clarke arrived with Lexa. Their hands were linked. Clarke looked worried; Lexa, unreadable.
“I need to tell you something,” Anya said, and her voice didn’t shake.
She told them everything.
By the time she finished, Clarke had tears in her eyes, and Lexa had turned her face away, jaw locked in silent fury.
“You want to push her away?” Lexa asked finally. “On purpose?”
Anya nodded.
“She’ll never forgive you,” Clarke whispered.
“I don’t want her to,” Anya replied.
Lexa stepped forward, eyes burning. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking her to live through? You want her to survive this and think you stopped loving her? You want her to carry that for the rest of her life?”
Anya flinched. “I want her to live.”
“Living isn’t the same as surviving.”
“I don’t care,” Anya snapped. “She needs to raise Tris. She needs to fall in love again. She needs to forget me. If she knows the truth, she’ll die with me.”
Silence stretched.
Then Clarke pulled her into a hug so tight Anya thought her ribs might crack.
“I hate this,” Clarke whispered into her hair. “But I’ll help you.”
Lexa didn’t speak for a long time.
Then finally: “So will I.”
Anya broke that night. She sobbed in Clarke’s lap, her face soaked in tears, body trembling like a child’s. Lexa turned away again — not out of coldness, but because she couldn’t bear to see someone choose to die alone.
That evening, Anya sat across the dinner table from Raven.
Tris was in her high chair, smearing mashed sweet potato across her face with glee.
Raven grinned. “You’re a mess, baby girl.”
Tris beamed, babbling. “Mess!”
Anya forced a smile. Her fork trembled in her hand.
“Babe, you okay?” Raven asked, glancing at her.
“Fine.”
“You didn’t eat anything.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Raven blinked, taken aback by the sharpness.
Anya stood, dumped her untouched plate in the sink, and muttered something about needing air.
Behind her, she heard Tris say, “Mama sad.”
Raven’s voice was soft. “Yeah… she is.”
That night, Anya held her daughter in her arms and sang her to sleep.
A soft hum. No words.
Because words were starting to fail her.
It was raining again the next morning.
A soft, persistent drizzle that wrapped the sky in a dull gray coat. The kind of rain that made everything quiet — even inside the Woods-Reyes home, where usually the air was alive with baby giggles and Raven humming while making pancakes.
Today, the silence was thicker.
Anya stood by the window with a cup of untouched coffee, her eyes fixed on the yard where Tris’s tiny pink rain boots were tipped sideways in the mud. Her hands shook, but she kept them still by sheer force of will. She hadn’t slept. She’d barely blinked.
Behind her, she heard Raven walking softly into the kitchen, her footfalls barefoot and familiar. She always moved like she was afraid to wake something.
“You didn’t come to bed,” Raven said gently.
“I wasn’t tired.”
“You didn’t sleep either.”
Anya didn’t reply.
Raven came closer, stopped a few feet behind her. “Are you mad at me? Did I miss something?”
“No,” Anya said. Too quickly.
“Then what’s going on?”
“I just need space, Rae.”
There it was — the first stone thrown.
Raven stepped back like she’d been slapped.
Anya didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.
But she heard Raven’s voice break just slightly when she said, “Okay.”
Later that day, Anya found herself in the attic.
She hadn’t been up there in months. Dust coated everything like forgotten snow. She didn’t turn the light on. She didn’t need to.
She opened the trunk in the far corner — the one with the broken clasp — and pulled out the worn, leather-bound notebook tucked underneath old tour posters and baby clothes.
It was her lyrics journal. The one she hadn’t written in since Tris was born. Music had taken a backseat to lullabies, storybooks, and midnight diaper changes.
She flipped to the last page and ran her hand over the indent of the final scribbled words.
Give me one more night...
Her fingers trembled.
She picked up a pen and began to write again. The lines came slow. Careful. Bloody.
That evening, Raven came home from the store with chocolate croissants — Anya’s favorite. She always brought them when she sensed tension.
“I got the ones with dark chocolate inside,” she said with a hopeful smile. “They had the good kind today.”
Anya looked up from the couch, her expression unreadable.
“I’m not hungry.”
Raven’s smile faded. “Okay. But—”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
The sharpness again. This time worse. Tris, playing on the floor with her blocks, stopped mid-babble and looked up, confused.
Raven set the bag down slowly.
“What is this?” she asked, voice low. “Talk to me.”
Anya stared at her. Her heart begged her to stop, to fold into her wife’s arms and sob until there was nothing left. But her mind reminded her of Abby’s voice. A year. Maybe less.
“This isn’t working anymore,” Anya said.
Raven’s breath caught.
“What?”
“This… us. I can’t do it anymore.”
Tris blinked and picked up her stuffed bunny.
Raven walked closer, confused. Shaking her head like she’d misheard.
“Anya… what are you saying?”
Anya stood, moving to the hallway, needing space between them.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
Silence.
The only sound was Tris pressing a button on her toy — a tinny song played, cheerful and wrong.
Raven’s voice was small. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“No. No, it’s not. You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want.”
“Anya,” Raven whispered, stepping forward like every step hurt, “you were holding me in your sleep two nights ago. You kissed me on the porch last week. You— You don’t just stop loving someone like that.”
“I did.”
“Bullshit.”
Anya’s jaw tightened. Her vision blurred. She wanted to scream, I’m dying, Raven! but instead—
“I’m tired of this life. Of pretending. Of waking up to a crying baby and your messy hair and the same goddamn pancakes every Saturday.”
Raven flinched.
Tris dropped her toy.
And Anya walked out of the room before her soul could catch up and shatter.
That night, Raven didn’t sleep beside her.
Anya lay alone, eyes open, listening to the faint sound of Tris whimpering down the hall.
She had never hated herself more.
Two days later, Clarke called.
“Lexa wants to kill you,” she said, voice dry.
“She can get in line.”
“She also cried this morning.”
Anya didn’t reply.
“We’re coming over.”
“No.”
“You need people.”
“I need to end this.”
Clarke sighed. “You’re already ending.”
“Exactly.”
There was a pause.
Then Clarke whispered, “She’s not eating.”
Anya’s breath caught.
“Raven?”
“She’s trying to be strong for Tris. But you broke her, Anya. You broke the thing that made her alive.”
Anya bit her lip until it bled.
“Then I’m doing it right.”
That weekend, Anya took Tris to the park. Just the two of them.
They sat on the swing together, Anya’s arms wrapped tightly around the tiny body tucked against her chest.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Where’s Mommy?”
Anya closed her eyes.
“She’s at home, sweetheart.”
“Is she sad?”
Anya swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Can you hug her?”
Anya pressed her lips to Tris’s hair and whispered, “I already did.”
One week later, Anya found the blood again.
In the sink. In her pillow. On the inside of her shirt sleeve.
She didn’t tell anyone.
She just picked up her guitar, tuned it slowly, and began the first full chords of the song she was writing.
It would be the last one she ever wrote.
The melody was haunting. Quiet. Full of ache.
The lyrics were a prayer whispered through broken ribs.
And the chorus — the part that would be broadcast live to the entire world months later — was just one line, over and over:
“I’d give my all to have just one more night with you…”
Raven stopped playing music.
That was how Clarke knew it was bad.
The guitar that had once been Raven Reyes’s heartbeat — the same one she used to strum at 2 a.m. lullabies for Tris, or whispered harmonies in Anya’s ear while they danced barefoot in the living room — hadn’t been touched in over two weeks.
It sat in the corner now. Silent. Gathering dust. Like it was grieving, too.
“Are you sure you’re eating?” Clarke asked softly, setting a grocery bag down on the counter.
Raven didn’t answer. She stood at the sink, unmoving, staring at a cup that hadn’t been washed from breakfast. The air in the house was thick — like even the walls were holding their breath.
Tris toddled into the kitchen, dragging her stuffed bunny behind her, wearing one of Raven’s old T-shirts as a dress.
“Mommy?” she chirped. “Hungry.”
Raven blinked, as if waking up. Then she scooped Tris up into her arms.
“Okay, baby,” she murmured. “Let’s get you something, okay?”
Clarke watched the way Raven held her — tight, but distracted. Like someone hugging a ghost to keep it from leaving.
She wanted to scream she’s dying, just to get Raven to understand what was happening beneath the silence. But she had promised. And Clarke Griffin never broke a promise — especially not to a dying woman who had cried on her couch and begged for one last mercy.
At the same time, in a small guest room above Clarke and Lexa’s house, Anya sat on the floor with a recording mic in front of her.
She wasn’t strong enough to stand for long anymore.
Her hands shook too much to play full chords, but she pressed down the strings anyway — bloodying her fingertips again and again until the guitar bled with her.
It had taken her three weeks to finish the song.
But it was done.
“My All,” she had named it. A lie wrapped in truth. A confession wrapped in silence.
She didn’t record it for the producers. Not yet.
This version was raw. Just for Raven. Just once.
She looked into the camera and whispered, “For the love of my life — in a world where I couldn’t be brave enough to stay.”
Then she sang.
And even the walls wept.
Days blurred into weeks.
The fighting stopped.
Raven stopped begging.
That was how Anya knew it was working — or at least, that it was killing her properly.
The last time they spoke before the papers were filed, Anya met Raven in the front yard. Tris was napping inside. The house was full of boxes. The sky was heavy and low.
Raven looked smaller than she had ever been. Like she was folding in on herself.
She handed Anya a pen and the divorce papers without looking her in the eyes.
“This is what you want?”
Anya hesitated.
Then nodded. “Yes.”
Raven didn’t cry. Not this time. Not in front of her.
She just said, “Okay,” and turned away before the first tear could fall.
Anya watched her go. She gripped the pen so tightly it snapped.
She signed anyway.
Clarke sat beside her that night, holding a glass of wine Anya wouldn’t drink.
“She’s seeing someone,” Clarke said carefully.
Anya flinched.
“Her name’s Niylah. They knew each other in college. She teaches environmental science. Quiet. Gentle.”
Anya said nothing.
“She brings Tris chocolate milk in heart-shaped cups. Raven doesn’t let her stay overnight yet. She’s trying to move slow.”
Still, nothing.
“Lexa said she saw them walking through the park last week. Tris on Raven’s shoulders. Niylah holding Raven’s hand.”
Anya’s voice cracked on the inhale. “Did they look happy?”
Clarke turned her face away. “They looked... like they were trying.”
Anya smiled.
It broke her face in half.
That night, Lexa found Anya on the back porch, curled in a blanket, her face pressed into her knees.
“She’s not mine anymore,” Anya whispered.
Lexa didn’t speak.
Anya sobbed into the fabric. “I gave her away like she was a memory. And she still is one.”
Lexa knelt down and held her. She didn’t say it would be okay. Because it wouldn’t. And Lexa didn’t lie.
Anya pulled back, eyes swollen. “Do you think she’ll ever know?”
Lexa looked down. “One day.”
“And do you think she’ll hate me for it?”
Lexa’s voice was soft. “Yes.”
Anya nodded. “Good.”
Three days later, Indra called.
“You’re insane,” her voice barked through the phone. “You want your first concert in years to be some farewell festival, with you headlining last like it’s a damn funeral?”
Anya sat on the studio floor, back against the wall, breathing shallow.
“Yes.”
“You haven’t done a tour in nearly four years. Your fanbase is huge but they think you quit music. This is—”
“I need this, Indra.”
Indra paused. Her voice softened. “Why?”
“I need to say goodbye.”
Silence.
Then: “Who else knows?”
“No one that matters.”
Indra sighed. “Fine. But I’m choosing the opening acts. And I swear to god, Anya, if you die on stage—”
“I won’t.”
That was a lie.
But she meant it kindly.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Tris climbed into Anya’s lap with a drawing clasped in both hands.
The paper was wrinkled, smudged with crayon and something sticky. Anya took it carefully, her joints stiff today, knuckles sore like fire had crept beneath her skin again.
Two stick figures stood beneath a crooked sun. One had long hair. The other held a heart in its hand. Between them was a child in pink. Beneath the drawing, in shaky toddler letters, it read: "Me and my Mamas."
Anya swallowed hard.
Tris beamed. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Anya whispered, tracing the uneven lines. “Did you draw it at Raven’s?”
Tris nodded, bouncing a little. “Niyah helped me with the letters.”
Anya’s hands stilled.
“She said I’m a sunshine. Do you think I’m a sunshine?”
Anya pulled her daughter close, burying her face in her curls. “You’re the only sun I’ve ever known.”
They sat like that for a long time — Anya rocking her gently, silently, while the sky outside turned a pale kind of gray, like even the weather couldn’t decide if it wanted to cry.
That night, Anya stood in front of her bathroom mirror.
She unwrapped the bandage on her right hand. Her fingertips were cracked. Bleeding again. Her skin pale and tight.
She tried to lift her toothbrush.
It fell to the floor.
She stared at it for a long moment. Then slowly sank to her knees. Her legs didn’t like to move anymore without pain. Her lungs felt smaller than they used to.
She crawled to the wall and leaned her back against it.
The mirror watched her.
And she watched back.
And she whispered, “Hold on a little longer.”
Elsewhere, in Raven’s small apartment, Niylah brushed Tris’s hair gently while she hummed an old lullaby Raven used to sing.
Raven watched them from the doorway.
Her eyes were tired. Always tired. But Niylah had noticed something else lately — a certain stillness to her sadness. Like grief had become part of the furniture. Not gone. Just… lived with.
“She misses her,” Raven said softly.
Niylah nodded. “She talks about her every day.”
Raven bit her lip. “I dream about her every night.”
“Do you tell her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Raven hesitated. Then: “Because I don’t know if she left me or if she died and didn’t tell me.”
Niylah stood and walked over, gently taking Raven’s hand.
“You still love her.”
“I always will.”
Niylah nodded, and she didn’t cry. She just held Raven’s hand tighter.
Because some things you don’t try to fix. You just choose to stay near.
Clarke arrived at the greenhouse the next morning with a letter.
She handed it to Anya without a word.
Anya unfolded it carefully.
It was a printed draft — Indra’s media team’s release for the upcoming concert.
“For the first time in four years, Anya Woods returns to the stage in a global, one-night-only event. ‘Until My All Is Gone’ will be broadcast live from Memorial Arena. Guest artists TBA. Final performance by Anya herself.”
Anya smiled. “Looks official.”
Clarke didn’t smile back. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”
“I was always going to.”
Clarke knelt down and placed a hand over hers. “Do you want Raven to be there?”
Anya looked away. “She will be. Even if she doesn’t know why.”
Three nights later, Lexa came into the guest room quietly and found Anya sitting at the window, guitar across her lap, her forehead resting on the wood.
She was shaking.
“Your fingers again?” Lexa asked.
Anya nodded without looking.
“Want help?”
“No. I have to keep playing.”
“Why?”
Anya lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Because this song is the last thing she’ll ever hear from me. It has to be perfect.”
Lexa sat on the edge of the bed, her voice cracking. “You’re not going to make it to next year.”
“I know.”
Lexa reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.
Anya stared. “What is that?”
“Clarke and I were going to give this to you and Raven on your anniversary. But…”
Anya took the box with trembling fingers.
Inside was a gold locket. Tiny. Delicate. Engraved with A.R.T. — Anya, Raven, Tris.
She opened it.
Inside was a tiny folded picture: Raven’s face pressed to Anya’s temple, Tris in her lap, all of them laughing.
Anya let out a soft, broken breath.
Then she put the locket on.
The night before the show, Anya recorded a video.
It wasn’t for the fans.
It wasn’t for Clarke or Lexa or Indra.
It was for Raven.
She sat in front of the camera, looking older than thirty-two, her eyes rimmed in gray, her voice thin but sharp.
“If you’re watching this,” she said, “then I’m gone.”
She paused.
“I hope you’re mad at me. I hope you screamed. I hope you cursed me out in every language you know. Because if you did, it means you’re still alive. And that’s all I wanted.”
Her voice cracked.
“You were always the brave one. I just… pretended well.”
She held up a letter — one she’d handwritten with every last drop of strength.
“This is for Tris. Don’t give it to her until she’s old enough to understand why I left.”
She wiped her eyes and whispered, “I never stopped loving you, Raven Reyes. Even when I said I did.”
The camera ran out of battery before she could say goodbye.
The morning of the concert, Anya stood backstage, weak but upright.
Clarke zipped up her black dress. Lexa placed the locket around her neck.
Indra handed her a microphone and said nothing. Her eyes were red.
Outside, the arena swelled with over seventy thousand fans. On screens around the world, the show had already begun.
Anya clutched her guitar like a lifeline.
And she whispered, “Hold on, Anya. Just one more night.”
...To be continued