✓ BECAUSE WE WERE YOUNG | NIKI

21 - If The Whole World Burned

It's pouring. The trees are getting greener before my eyes. It's raining during summer and the unexpected downpour feels like a scene ripped from a bad dream. I'm back home, back in the comfort of my bed while a pile of books on my nightstand mocks my diminishing energy. I have been reading so many books lately, seeking refuge in worlds where illness is a mere plot point overcome by brave heroes and heroines. Worlds where, when you turn the pages, you find a cure, a happy ending neatly wrapped up with a bow.

But here, in the quiet of my room punctuated by the relentless drumming on the window pane, reality feels a lot more like a dog-eared paperback with pages missing, the ending shrouded in an unsettling fog. A cough wracks my body, stealing my breath and leaving me gasping for air. Frustration stings my eyes, hot and angry. These books, with their perfect narratives, mock my struggle.

Crawling out of my bed, I pull my oxygen tank along with me as I walk downstairs where my father is getting ready for work. It's early in the morning and while I'm supposed to be asleep, my mind and my body refuse to grant me rest. My father looks up from his morning routine, concern etched into the lines of his weary face as he takes in my appearance. "Oh, Y/N," He says, his voice rough with sleep. "What are you doing up?"

I nod, collapsing onto the kitchen chair a little too heavily. "The noise..." I wheeze, regretting the exertion. "And...thinking." He pours me a glass of water, his silence a familiar comfort. We don't need words to understand each other. He knows enough to not ask me about anything right now. And somehow, that unspoken understanding is enough to ease the tightness in my chest, if only slightly. As I sip the cool water, my father resumes his morning routine, moving about the kitchen with a quiet efficiency born of years of practice. The clatter of dishes and the hiss of the coffee maker provide a soothing background to my thoughts. 

"Are you feeling better these days?" I hear him ask and when I look up at him, he's not even looking at me. And I know why. I know he doesn't want to pry, doesn't want to force me to confront the truth I haven't been brave enough to face myself. I cannot think of anything other than the dark stains on my lung scan, those ominous shadows that had replaced the healthy, branching network of airways I used to take for granted. Shame burns in my throat, hotter than the coffee brewing in the pot behind Dad. Here I am, thinking of a fractured friendship when I don't know if I'll be able to live long enough to even consider mending it. 

"I'm okay, Dad," I manage to choke out, the words feeling like a feeble attempt to reassure both him and myself. "Just tired." I'm always tired, after all. Tired of tired of feeling like a fraud. Tired of carrying this burden alone while my friends drift further and further away. Here I am, drowning in a sea of anxieties, and all I can manage is a weak "okay" to my father's question. "And I just... miss going to Hope Haven."

My father's gaze softens and he pauses mid-pour, the coffee carafe tilted at an angle. A familiar ache tugs at my heart—a longing for the laughter that used to echo through Hope Haven, the talks under the oak tree, the feeling of belonging that only true friends can provide. Shame burns anew in my throat, hotter than the steam rising from the coffee pot. "It's not just missing the place, is it, Y/N?" He asks gently, his voice laced with understanding. The dam I've built around my emotions threatens to burst. With a shaky breath, I nod, tears welling up in my eyes.

"It's... it's them," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "I miss all of them. We haven't spoken since the fight, and it feels like..." I trail off, a new determination blooming through my ribs.  "I'm going to meet them. All of them. We need to talk, to clear the air. Maybe then, the sun can finally peek through the clouds again." My declaration surprises even me. The words, tumbled out, make a surprised smile spread across my father's face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.