A summer from now, would everything be okay? A summer from now, when I'm no longer here, would my friends stand under the same sun, with the same warmth? Would the birds still sing as beautifully or would the Frangipani flower wither without its fifth petal? It's hard to imagine the world without me in it, even though it feels like the world is already moving on without me, like I'm a ghost haunting the edges of my own life.
A summer from now, would Jake be free? Would the blood that stained his hands forever burden his soul, or would the sun bleach it away, leaving behind a faint memory etched in the lines of his worried face? My breath hitches when I think of him behind bars, when I think of him devoid of the warmth of the sun, the laughter of his friends, the simple comfort of a hug.
A week had passed since I'd last seen them. Seven days of solitude and silence, a gnawing emptiness echoing the hollowness of the hospital room. The silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the machines and the occasional cough that rips through me whenever I try to speak, to whisper. My throat feels like sandpaper and nothing seems to soothe the dryness, not even the water they bring in constant supply. I lie in bed, afraid I'd close my eyes and not open them again.
The days blur together, a monotonous cycle of sterile meals, intrusive tests, and endless pain. Each morning, I'd wake with a sliver of hope, clinging to the pathetic promise that somehow, Dad would relent, that the world outside this sterile prison wouldn't move on without me. But with each sunrise, that hope would crumble a little further, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that threatens to consume me.
A month is what I'm given at best. A month to fight, to hope, to dream of a summer that might never come. A month is too short, too fleeting, but my impending demise makes it long, too long I'd rather not wait anymore. And what a tragic irony it is, to have time stretch endlessly when every moment is filled with pain and longing.
I turn to look outside the window, the oxygen mask over my face gently hissing with each labored breath. From the corner of my eye, the book my father spent the night reading sits on the nightstand, its pages untouched since he left. The cover is worn, the spine cracked from years of loving use. It's a book of poems, the one Mom used to read us whenever the three of us were together at the hospital. In her last days, she read to us with a soft, raspy voice, trying to hide the pain in her eyes and make us smile.
Grabbing it, I go through the pages, my fingers slowly tracing the words when a picture falls out, fluttering to the floor like a captured butterfly. I freeze, my mother's smiling face looking up at me from the photograph. It's a candid shot, taken during one of our rare moments of happiness, a picnic in the park. She's laughing, her eyes crinkled at the corners, holding a sandwich in one hand and reaching out to me with the other. My younger self is captured mid-laugh, the wind tousling my hair, and Dad is behind us, grinning broadly, his arms wrapped around both of us.
A sob escapes my lips, a sound muffled by the oxygen mask. Memories flood back, vivid and bittersweet. The scent of freshly cut grass, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the comforting weight of Dad's arm around my shoulder. Time is cruel. It moves forward, heedless of our desires, dragging us along with it. A month feels like torture.
"I miss you, Mom," I whisper, burying my face in my hands. I wonder what she would say if she was here. I wonder if she would hold me close and tell me to be strong, or if she would simply sit by my side, knowing well my exhaustion, and the overwhelming desire to let go. A thief is stealing my future and I watch, hands tied, as it slips through my fingers, grain by grain, moment by moment. I'm nothing but a captive in a body rebelling against me. Nothing but a passenger on a journey I never wanted to take.
And I cry, and cry, and cry. I cry for everything this world has taken from me and everything I've yet to give. I cry for the summers I'll never see, the dreams left unfulfilled, and the love I can no longer express. I cry for the injustice of it all.
YOU ARE READING
✓ BECAUSE WE WERE YOUNG | NIKI
Fanfiction❝We're so young but we're on the road of ruin.❞
