The fault in our stars~Jikook

Chapter One

During the summer of my seventeenth year, my mother decided that I was depressed. Presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, and devoted a lot of my free time to thinking about death. Whenever you read a cancer book, website, or anything about that matter, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. Depression is not a side effect of cancer, It's simply a side effect of dying. Which in that case we all feel depressed sometimes, considering the fact we're all dying slowly everyday. My mom believed I required treatment so she took me too see my regular doctor. Doctor Kim, who agreed that I was depressed, she decided to switch my meds and suggested that I attend a weekly support group. For kids "just like me" which of course I refused. But I went, why? for the same reason I do anything nowadays, to make my parents happy.

The support group of course was depressing as hell, It met every Wednesday in a church basement shaped like a cross. We all sat in a small circle where the two top boards met, where the heart of Jesus would have actually been. I only noticed this because Yoojung, the support group leader had mentioned this every meeting. So here is how every meeting went, we all sit in the circle of the "heart of Jesus" and listened to Yoojung recount for the millionth time about how depressing his life was. That is until he found himself in the heart of Jesus, now I'll spare you the boring details about his ball cancer. They thought he was going to die but he didn't die and now here he is, divorced, friendless, living on his parents couch, addicted to video games, and trying to meager living by exploiting his cancer tactic past.

Then we introduced ourselves: Name, age, diagnosis, and how were doing today. I'm Jimin, I'd say when they'd get to me. Seventeen, thyroid originally but with an long satellite colony in my lungs. I'm doing okay. Once we got around the circle every one started talking about different things that didn't revolve around cancer. Although Yoojung did let us talk about dying, most of them weren't dying and would live onto adult hood just as Yoojung did. The only redeeming facet of Support Group was this kid named Taehyung, a handsome yet skinny guy, with wavy long black hair that swept over one eye. His eyes were the problem, he had some improbable eye cancer. One eye had been cut out when he was a kid, and now he wore the kind of thick glasses that made his eyes (his real eye and his fake eye) preternaturally huge. Taehyung and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs, each time someone brought up anticancer diets. He'd glance over at me and sigh ever so lightly, I'd just shake my head and microscopically exhale in response.

After a few weeks of going to the support groups I refused to go, I couldn't stand being in that depressing room anymore. As I sat on the couch with my mother watching our favorite show, I spoke out annoyed. "I refuse to attend that support group anymore Eomma", she sighed and looked at me. "One symptom of depression is disinterest in activities" She said and I was shocked at her words. Although I cant blame her for being worried about me the way she is, she almost lost me and part of her knows that someday she will. So I agreed to just go, I'd do this for her even if I hated it. There is only one thing in this world shittier than biting it from cancer, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer.

My mother pulled into the circular drive way behind the church at around 4:30, I preteneded to fiddle with my oxygen tank for a second to kill some time.

"Do you want me to carry it in for you?" she asked and I shook my head slightly, "No, Its fine" I said, the tank only weighed a few pounds, and I had this little steel cart to help wheel it around with me. It delivered two liters of oxygen to me each minute through a transparent tube that split just beneath my neck, wrapped behind my ears, and then reunited in my nostrils. The contraption was necessary because my lungs just sucked at being lungs.

I love you, she said as I got out, "You too, Eomma I'll see you at six" I said before walking away slowly dreading going inside. "Make some friends!" My mother yelled before rolling up the window and driving away. I sighed and walked into the old building making my way to the stairs trying to avoid everyone else. When I was down in the basement I wanted to get a drink before sitting down so I grabbed a small cup and poured some lemonade into and turned around to take a sip. A boy was staring at me, I was quite sure Id never seen him before. Tall and muscular, black straight short hair, he looked my age maybe a year older. He sat with his tailbone against the edge of the chair, his posture aggressively poor, one hand half in the pocket of his dark jeans. I looked away, suddenly conscious of my myriad insufficiencies. I was wearing old Jeans, which had once been tight but now sagged in weird places, and a yellow T-shirt advertising a band I didnt even like anymore. Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of treatment. This was not even to mention the cankle situation, and yet—I cut a glance to him, and his eyes were still on me. It occurred to me why they call it eye contact.