Rooftop Summer | EN- Jake

6

The days that followed her diagnosis were a blur for Hanna. The world seemed to have lost its colour, everything dulled by the weight of the knowledge that her life was slipping away. The hospital room that had once felt like a place of temporary refuge now felt like a prison, the sterile walls closing in on her as she tried to come to terms with her new reality.

She couldn't stop thinking about what the doctor had said—that she didn't have much time left. The words echoed in her mind, a constant reminder that her life, which had once seemed so full of promise, was now finite, measured in days and weeks instead of years and decades.

Hanna had always been the kind of person who faced challenges head-on, who believed in finding solutions, no matter how difficult the problem. But this... this was something she couldn't fix, couldn't fight. It was as if the universe had decided to pull the rug out from under her just when she started to believe that everything was falling into place.

At first, she started to stay strong for her parents. She could see how devastated they were, how guilty they felt for not taking her earlier complaints seriously. They hovered around her, constantly asking if she needed anything, if she was comfortable, if there was anything they could do. But the truth was, there was nothing anyone could do. The reality of her situation was inescapable, and every time they looked at her with those pitying eyes, it only made her feel worse.

The pity was unbearable. She didn't want their sympathy, didn't want their constant reassurances that everything would be okay when they all knew it wouldn't. She wanted to scream, to tell them stop pretending that they could somehow make this better. But instead, she just nodded, offering them weak smiles that never reached her eyes, trying to keep up the pretence for their sake.

But inside, she was crumbling.

The despair settled in like a dark cloud, growing heavier with each passing day. It became harder and harder to get out of bed every morning, harder to find any reason to keep going. The things that had once brought her joy—her friends, her hobby, the simple pleasures of life—now felt distant and hollow, as if they belonged to someone else.

She began to withdraw, pushing everyone away. It started with her friends. Jay, Emma, and Mia had been texting and calling nonstop since they found out, offering to visit, to keep her company, to do anything she needed. But Hanna couldn't bear to see them, couldn't stand the thought of their concerned faces, their forced cheerfulness as they tried to act like everything was normal.

What was the point? What could the possibly say that would make any of this better? They still had their whole lives ahead of them, while hers was slipping through her fingers. The thought of sitting with them, pretending to be interested in their latest gossip of their plans for the future, made her stomach turn.

So she stopped answering their calls. She ignored their texts, letting the messages pile up unread. She knew they were worried, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She couldn't handle their pity, their concern, their futile attempts to comfort her. It was easier to shut them out, to retreat into herself where no one could reach her.

Her parents were harder to avoid. They were always there, always hovering, always watching her with those sad, worried eyes. It was suffocating. She couldn't escape them, couldn't find a moment of peace without them intruding on her thoughts, trying to cheer her up, trying to make her feel better.

She started pretending to be asleep whenever they came into her room, hoping they would take the hint and leave her alone. Sometimes it worked, but more often than not, her mother would sit by her bedside anyway, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words that only made Hanna want to scream.

"Everything's going to be okay, sweetheart," her mother would say, even though they both knew it was a lie.
"We're going to get through this together."

But Hanna didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to be told that everything would be okay when it wasn't. She didn't want to be told that they would get through this together when she knew she was facing it alone. How could they possibly understand what she was feeling? How could they know the terror, the despair, the overwhelming grief that came with knowing her life was ending before it had really begun?

She began to lash out, her frustration and anger bubbling to the surface in harsh words that she couldn't control.

"Stop saying that!" She snapped one evening, when her mother had come in with yet another tray of food that Hanna couldn't stomach.
"Just stop pretending that everything's fine when it's not! I'm dying, Mom! Don't you get that? I'm dying, and nothing you do is going to change that!"

Her mother's face crumpled, the tears she had been holding back finally spilling over. She set the tray down on the bedside table, her hands trembling.
"Hanna, please... I'm just trying to help. I don't know what else to do..."

Hanna turned away, pulling the blankets up over her head as if that could block out the sound of her mother's sobs.
"Just leave me alone," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
"Please, just leave me alone."

She heard her mother's footsteps retreating, the door closing softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing in on her from all sides. She felt the tears welling up, but she fought them back, refusing to cry. Crying wouldn't change anything.

The days stretched on, each one blending into the next in a monotonous haze of hopelessness. Hanna stopped trying to eat, pushing the food away whenever  her mother brought it to her. She stopped caring about anything, stopped trying to pretend that she was okay. What was the point? What was the point of fighting, of struggling, when she knew the outcome was inevitable?

Her parents tried to get her to talk to someone—a therapist, a counsellor, anyone who might help her process what was happening. But Hanna refused. What could they say that she didn't already know? How could they possibly help when nothing could change the fact that she was dying?

She spent most of her time in bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts a dark spiral of despair. She imagined what it would be like when she was gone—how her parents would cope, how her friends would move on, how the world would keep turning without her. It was a strange, surreal feeling, to know that life would go on, even when hers was ending.

There were moments when the anger flared up again, hot and fierce, making her want to throw something, to scream, to tear at the walls. But those moments passed quickly, leaving her drained and exhausted, too tired to care anymore.

More often than not, though, she just felt numb. It was easier that way, easier to shut everything out, to push everyone away, to retreat into herself where nothing could touch her. It was easier to give in to the despair, to let it swallow her whole, than to keep fighting a battle she knew she couldn't win.

She was dying, and nothing could change that. And as the day dragged on, Hanna found herself wondering if it wouldn't be easier to just let go, to stop fighting, to slip away quietly into the darkness that was waiting for her.

Because what was the point of holding on when there was nothing left to hold on to?