The Man Who Donated a Kidney to Me Proposed a Month Later, Claiming He Was Terminally Ill and Didn't Want to Pass Alone – But Right After We Said 'I Do,' He Took My Hand and Whispered, 'Now I Can Finally Tell You the Truth'

I looked up. "What?"

"Use it well."

The operation worked. My new kidney started functioning almost immediately.

When I woke up, Nathan was alive.

Nathan, somehow, recovered fast enough to become annoying.

He visited my room wearing hospital socks and carrying contraband pudding.

After discharge, he kept showing up.

"You look terrible," he said.

"You donated the kidney, not your manners."

"Those were never eligible."

I laughed, then grabbed my side. "Don't make me laugh."

"Finally, leverage."

After discharge, he kept showing up.

One evening, rain trapped us under the awning outside my building.

Sometimes with groceries. Sometimes with books. Once with a plant I nearly killed.

"You saved me and now you're assigning homework?" I asked.

"Correct," Nathan said. "Keep the fern alive."

Friendship came quietly after that, then accelerated with the strange intensity of people who had already shared something enormous before learning the ordinary things about each other.

One evening, rain trapped us under the awning outside my building.

I started wanting him there even when I didn't need him.

Nathan looked at me and said, "You know you can stop thanking me."

"I haven't thanked you today."

"Your face has."

I smiled. "Rude."

"Accurate."

Nathan knocked on my door after dark.

This was the dangerous part: I started wanting him there even when I didn't need him.

A month after the transplant, Nathan knocked on my door after dark.

No groceries. No book. No joke.

He stood in the hallway with both hands in his coat pockets.

"Can I come in?"

I stepped aside.