Her Purpose | ✓

Chapter Two

The car ride home stretches forever, each second dragging by. It's funny, isn't it? How time can play tricks on you like that. This drive, which usually takes twenty minutes tops, now feels like it's lasting an eternity.

Kind of like my life, I suppose.

Seventeen years that felt like they'd go on forever, and now I can count what's left in months. In weeks. Maybe even days.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world zip by outside. It's a beautiful May afternoon. The sun is shining, casting a golden glow over everything. Trees are in full bloom, and their leaves are vibrant green. People are out and about, walking dogs, pushing prams, laughing with friends.

How is it possible that the world can look so beautiful when mine has just fallen apart?

Why is everything carrying on as usual when nothing will ever be normal for me again?

The contrast is almost painful. Out there, life is continuing. People are making plans, dreaming of the future, living. And here I am, in this car, with a death sentence hanging over my head.

I can hear Mum sniffling in the front seat, trying to stifle her sobs. Dad's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. His voice is rough when he speaks, like he's fighting back tears.

"We'll get a second opinion," he says, breaking the heavy silence. "There has to be something else we can do."

Mum lets out a choked sound that might be agreement or despair. I can't tell anymore.

"We'll re-mortgage the house if we have to," Dad continues. "We'll look into experimental treatments, clinical trials, anything."

"John," Mum says softly. "You heard what Dr. Patel said. It's... it's too advanced."

"I don't care what she said!" Dad's voice rises, anger and fear mixing. "She's seventeen, for God's sake. There has to be something."

I want to tell them to stop that it's okay. That we don't need to fight this. But the words stick in my throat. Because it's not okay, none of this is okay.

So, instead, I stay silent, my breath fogging up a small patch on the window. I draw a little heart in the condensation with my finger, then quickly wipe it away. It's stupid and childish. What's the point of hearts when mine will stop beating soon?

We pass by my old primary school, and a memory hits me. Me, aged seven, falling off the monkey bars and breaking my arm. I'd been so scared, so sure that the pain would last forever. Mum held me close in the car on the way to A&E, promising me everything would be alright.

She can't promise that now, can she?

The car falls silent again, the only sound the soft hiccupping of Mum's sobs and the steady hum of the engine. It feels like a funeral procession. Maybe it is. Perhaps I'm already dead, and this is what comes after.