Skyla had once stuck a reminder on my fridge saying that coffee did not count as breakfast. After my girlfriend, who barely had any money, vanished for five days, that note was all she had left behind. She had no idea the grave illness I had told her about was fabricated to measure her devotion. When she came back and set something in front of me, I hid my face and wept uncontrollably.

The first time Skyla saw me toss out a coffee maker, she figured I had gone crazy.

“It quit working,” I told her.

“Did you attempt to clean it?”

“I just bought a replacement.”

She looked toward the new machine on my kitchen counter.

“Archie, the other one likely only needed to be descaled.”

“I have no idea what that even is.”

“That much is obvious.”

She took the old machine back to her place.

A couple of days afterward, she texted me a photo of it running without a problem.

REPAIRED. TOTAL SPENT: $4.

I laughed out loud.

That was exactly who Skyla was.

She was twenty-four, completing her college education and waiting tables during evening shifts.

Her car produced a terrible noise on left turns. Her computer took ages to boot, and after covering her rent, she carefully planned her food spending and purchased used course books.

I, on the other hand, owned a thriving company and had grown up in a rich household where hardly anyone bothered looking at price tags.

Our relationship was approaching its second anniversary.

Every time I suggested paying her college fees, Skyla turned me down.

“I want to prove to myself that I can manage it,” she would tell me.

My mother and father saw it another way.

During Sunday lunch, Mom asked whether Skyla truly grasped how much money our family had.

“She’s met you, Mom,” I replied. “She knows you have plenty.”

“That wasn’t my question, Archie.”

Dad was less subtle about his doubts.

“Watch yourself. Certain people are patient enough to wait until your defenses are down.”

My friends voiced much the same concerns.

One friend, still angry about a nasty breakup, maintained that his ex had only dated him for the comforts his money provided.

“Archie, your girlfriend has no money. You honestly think she doesn’t see a chance here?”

At first, I stood up for Skyla.

But little by little, what they said started getting into my head.

She had never asked me to give her money.

Was it simply because she didn’t want any?

Or did she understand that requesting it would raise my suspicions?

After those questions took hold, even everyday kindness began to seem questionable.

If she cooked a meal at my place, I wondered if she was putting on a performance to win my approval.

If she recalled a major meeting on my schedule, I wondered if she was intentionally trying to keep me pleased.

One night, she showed up with her temperamental laptop, whose display blinked whenever it was shifted.

“I’ll get you a new computer,” I offered.

“Thanks, but no. I’ve booked someone to fix it.”

“Skyla, paying for one isn’t a problem for me.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

“Why can’t you accept my help, then?”

She looked up at me.

“Because I’m capable of dealing with it.”

I ought to have honored that decision.

Instead, I kept hearing Dad’s caution in my thoughts.

Seven days later, I came up with the most terrible idea I’d ever had.

I was going to put her through a test.

I told myself I had to learn whether she’d remain with me if I had nothing more to give.

I rehearsed the false story in my vehicle before she came over.

As soon as Skyla stepped into the kitchen, she could tell something was wrong from my face.

“Archie? Honey, what’s going on?”

I sat down heavily in a chair.

“I received some test results from the hospital.”

Her purse fell from her hand.

“What results?”

“There’s something seriously wrong with my health.”

She went completely still.

“What are you saying?”

“The doctors think I need treatment right away. Otherwise…”

She dragged a chair over next to mine.

“Which physician? What did the tests actually show?”

“They haven’t told me everything. There’s another consultation before they can go over the treatment.”

“All right. All right, we can handle that.” She held my hand. “No matter what this is, we’ll work through it together.”

That was when I introduced the second part of my lie.

“Getting treated will cost a fortune. I don’t have enough to pay for it.”

Her eyebrows drew together.

“Don’t you have health insurance?”

“It doesn’t pay for nearly enough.”

“Could your mother and father help?”

“Not on this occasion.”

I gave her an impossibly high figure, fully aware she could never gather that kind of money.

She echoed the number in disbelief.

“Seriously, that much?”

I gave a small nod.

Following a long pause, she said, “How long have we got to come up with it?”

I had assumed she would want to know whether I had any wealth remaining.

But her first concern was how much time we had.

“I’m not sure,” I answered.

She reached for her mobile.

“In that case, we have to find out.”

For the next forty-eight hours, Skyla barely stopped working on the problem.

She looked into clinics, programs offering financial support, installment plans, and alternative medical opinions.

She phoned whenever she had a gap between lectures.

“Will you give me your doctor’s name?”

“I can’t right now.”

“How come?”

“It’s all too much for me, Skyla.”

“Then I can make those calls for you.”

I told her that I’d already tried every available avenue.

She wouldn’t believe that there were no other options.

“We can always reach out to somebody else,” she insisted.

Nevertheless, I dismissed each idea she proposed.

By the second night, she came over carrying a notebook packed with things she wanted to ask.

“Archie, I need an honest answer from you.”

My pulse started racing.

“About which part?”

“Have you really contacted anybody to ask about help paying for treatment?”

“I have.”

“Who did you contact?”

“I can’t recall every single person.”

She searched my expression.

“I’m really scared.”

I looked in the other direction.

“All right. I’ll work something else out.”

She closed the notebook before getting to her feet.

“But if you won’t allow me to make calls with you, give me some time to investigate things myself.”

The next morning brought the text that began her absence of five days.

SKYLA: I’m going away for five days. Please don’t phone me.

I dialed her number immediately.

There was no answer.

I sent a text.

Where are you headed?

She didn’t reply.

For the previous two days, she’d seemed committed to helping me.

And now she was gone.

Dad’s warnings resurfaced in my mind.

I pictured her deciding that a penniless, gravely ill partner was more trouble than he was worth.

I called her again on day two.

It went directly to her voicemail.

I almost rang my friends to tell them their suspicions had been correct.

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Maybe I was ashamed.

Or maybe I dreaded listening to them celebrate being right.

On the third day, my attention fell on a message Skyla had left on the refrigerator several weeks before.

HAVE BREAKFAST BEFORE THE MEETING. COFFEE DOESN’T COUNT AS BREAKFAST.

Below the words, she’d sketched a hilariously terrible little egg.

I remained there looking at it.

That thoughtful little act didn’t fit the greedy person I’d made her out to be.

Neither did all the nights she’d helped me rehearse business presentations.

Nor did the day she’d driven all the way across the city after I casually told her I felt alone.

None of that had involved spending much money.

And I had hardly recognized its value.

By day four, there was nothing gratifying about the situation.

I was looking at my phone every hour instead.

I had no clue where Skyla had gone.

At the same time, I knew it would be hypocritical to insist she explain herself when I’d lied about something so important.

I disliked admitting that truth and repeatedly tried to push it away.

On the fifth evening after her text, I sat in the lounge and heard a key twist in the front-door lock.

Skyla came inside, visibly worn out.

Her hair was loosely pulled back, her coat was creased, and she carried a little wooden case tucked under one arm.

“Where on earth were you?” I asked sharply.

She set the case on the table in front of the sofa.

“Please, not now.”

“You were missing for five whole days!”

“I realize that.”

“I tried to call!”

“And I told you not to.”

“Can you imagine what was going through my head?”

She looked straight at me.

“I figured you’d be afraid.”

I came close to laughing.

For five days, I’d been privately blaming her for walking away from me.

Skyla lifted the lid of the wooden case.

I knew what it was at once.

It used to be her grandmother’s.

The top was covered in scratches, and a broken corner had once been stuck back on with glue.

Skyla stored her grandmother’s recipes, written by hand, inside it.

She’d previously told me it was the only thing she would never choose to part with.

This time, the recipe cards had been moved to one side.

A substantial pile of paperwork was tucked underneath.

“What are these?” I asked her.

“Possibilities.”

She sat down on the sofa.

“Do you remember Meryl, Grandma’s friend? The lady who volunteered to help patients?”

I nodded my head.

“Meryl was seriously ill a long time ago. Grandma used to drive her to her medical visits. I remembered that Meryl later got involved with a patient assistance group.”

Skyla took out a list she’d written herself.

“I got in touch with her. She offered to explain the important questions we should be asking.”

“You traveled to meet her?”

“It’s only a few hours to her home. I was free from college for a bit, and my boss agreed to let me take those days.”

She massaged her weary eyes.

“I stayed at her place. With her help, I spoke to someone who guides patients through treatment and located groups that might be able to advise us about financial support. I switched off my phone because I knew talking to you would leave me worrying the entire time rather than accomplishing anything.”

I gazed down at the paperwork.

There were contact numbers, rules for qualifying for assistance, and guidance on challenging insurance decisions.

There was no promise that any of it would work.

Still, every sheet showed just how completely she’d trusted what I told her.

“Meryl explained that without your precise diagnosis and an estimate for treatment, nobody can say what help you qualify for,” Skyla went on.

She faced me directly.

“I understand you don’t want to discuss the specifics of your illness. But guessing isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

I picked up the page at the top.

Notes in her handwriting filled its edges.

ASK IF ANOTHER MEDICAL OPINION IS POSSIBLE.

CONFIRM WHETHER THE PRICE COVERS AFTERCARE.

REQUEST WRITTEN DETAILS OF WHAT THE INSURER REFUSED.

“You really did every bit of this?” I whispered.

“I wasn’t able to get the money, Archie.” Her voice trembled. “I tried figuring out what I could sell, but selling everything I have still wouldn’t be nearly enough.”

She put her hand into the box once more.

“After that, Meryl let me see this.”

She passed me a weathered recipe card.

One side gave instructions for making chicken soup.

Across the reverse, faded words had been written:

For those times when courage fails us both.

“Grandma wrote it for Meryl,” Skyla explained.

“She’d accompany her to the hospital and take notes on everything the physicians told them. Meryl said Grandma couldn’t take the sickness away, but she made certain her friend never had to keep track of everything by herself.”

Her eyes returned to mine.

“I figured I might be able to offer you the same thing.”

I had no words.

She rested a hand on the documents.

“I can’t give you the amount you need. But I managed to locate people who could guide us through the next steps.”

My gaze shifted from the battered recipe card to the ink marks on her fingers.

She’d devoted five days to this because she trusted my lie.

I attempted to express my gratitude, but my voice gave way.

I buried my face in my hands and started crying hard.

Skyla edged nearer to me.

“Archie?”

I moved my head from side to side, still unable to hold back the tears.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Everything’s all right.”

“Skyla, what have you done?!”

She extended her hand toward mine.

In that moment, I realized that accepting her reassurance while keeping the truth hidden would make my betrayal even worse.

“Skyla, there is nothing wrong with my health.”

She looked at me in shock.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t been diagnosed with anything. There is no treatment.”

A flash of relief appeared on her face.

“So the doctors got it wrong?”

I shook my head slowly.

“I invented the whole thing.”

She took her hand away.

“Which thing did you invent?”

“Everything. I was trying to see whether you’d stick around if I didn’t have enough money for medical care.”

She looked down toward the papers.

“You watched me ask people I didn’t know how to save your life.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I used those five days to learn how I could stand by you. You used them to convince yourself I’d walked away.”

I moved my hand toward the wooden box.

Skyla drew it out of my reach.

“Don’t touch it.”

She collected the documents, slipped the old card back inside, and shut the box.

“How could you put me through this?”

“My friends and my parents wouldn’t stop telling me you were interested in my wealth.”

“So you took their word for it?”

“I let myself have doubts.”

She lifted her bag.

“We’ve been together two years, Archie.”

I couldn’t find anything to say.

“You could have talked to me about absolutely anything.”

“I know… sweetheart… I’m…”

“No, you really don’t.”

She left with the box in her arms.

I stayed where I was.

The following morning, I wrote her a single apology and offered to reimburse the money she’d spent traveling and the pay she’d missed.

Her response said she would pay her own expenses and wanted some distance.

I gave her the space she requested.

Afterward, I told my parents the whole truth.

Mom’s first reaction was, “At least now you’ve established she didn’t want your money.”

“She spent five days looking for a way to save me. I spent those five days assuming she was after my fortune.”

Dad argued that I had simply been looking out for myself.

“I didn’t have to deceive her to be careful.”

Neither of them had a reply.

I started meeting with a counselor.

It was several weeks before I heard from Skyla again.

Want to get coffee? At our usual diner. Saturday.

When she came in, she seemed to be doing well.

We talked about her studies and about Meryl, until at last she put her mug down.

“Do you still believe you would’ve lost me if you had actually been ill?”

“No.”

She studied me closely.

“But that isn’t the reason what I did was wrong,” I added. “I scared you just to get reassurance. You never consented to being put through a test.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to believe you again.”

“I get that.”

She drank the rest of her coffee.

“Perhaps we can get together another day.”

“I’d really like to.”

Little by little, we started repairing what I’d damaged between us.

A few months afterward, Skyla asked me to come to her place for supper.

She was cooking the chicken soup from her grandmother’s recipe.

As I cut up vegetables, she rummaged through the wooden box of recipe cards.

Then she passed me a card that looked more recent.

TO SOMEONE I LOVE.

On its reverse was a checklist she’d made before setting out for Meryl’s home.

The last item said:

Make sure he remembers he’s Archie, even if he’s afraid.

I went over the words two times.

Tears gathered in my eyes.

Skyla carefully took back the card and placed it where it belonged.

“I came close to getting rid of that,” she admitted. “I’m happy I held on to it.”

“Thanks for giving me a chance to return.”

“Then continue showing me I can believe in you.”

I nodded in agreement.

All at once, an odd odor spread across the kitchen.

Skyla glanced at the burner.

“Archie, it’s starting to burn.”

I seized the wooden spoon.

She moved out of my way so I could get to the pot.