Carved in Her Bones

Tomas

She barged into the room, and suddenly, I was assaulted by the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Assaulted—because there was something about her beauty that demanded attention, that forced you to look, to stare, to take it all in whether you wanted to or not.

"Where's Joey?" she asked. No greeting, no introduction—just that, as if I was supposed to know who Joey was.

I raised a brow, silently questioning her. She didn't take the hint.

"Where's Joey?" she repeated, her tone sharper this time.

Then, just as abruptly, she turned and walked back out. I watched as she studied the name on the door, as if double-checking she had the right place, then came back in. I was still staring at her. I couldn't not stare.

And then, for the first time in a long time, I was aware of myself—my body, my face, how I must have looked to her. I felt the sudden, urgent need to appear attractive to this strange, breathtaking girl. How did I look through those big green eyes? Did I seem handsome? Or did I look sickly, weak—like a man who had been reduced to nothing but an illness?

I cleared my throat. She turned to me, her expression shifting into something softer, something almost apologetic.

"I'm so sorry," she said, and for the first time, I heard warmth in her voice. "They told me Joey would be moved here today."

"And Joey is your boyfriend?" The words left my mouth before I could think better of it. The question startled me—not just because I had asked it, but because I needed to know.

She tilted her head slightly. "I guess you could say that."

You guess? Since when were there degrees of romantic relationships? Had I missed something in the time cancer had taken over my life? I nodded, pretending the answer didn't bother me.

"Well, no Joey here."

She looked so young in her school uniform—pleated skirt, blazer, crisp white shirt. Her large green eyes seemed too big for her delicate face, framed by thick, dark lashes. A small button nose, full pink lips. Her skin had a warm olive undertone, light brown but difficult to place. Her long, curly hair tumbled in a thick, unruly mess down to her chest.

I realized I was objectifying a stranger and looked away, ashamed.

She walked over to my bed, stopping just in front of me. Then, with unwavering confidence, she met my eyes and extended a slender, manicured hand.

"Hello, I'm Rhian. I'm not usually this rude."

I took her hand, and it was warm—soft in a way that made me hyperaware of how frail my own body felt.

As I held her hand in mine, drowning in the forest green of her eyes, I knew—with absolute certainty—that there would be a before and an after. And that divide had just been drawn, the moment I looked at her.

She pulled her hand away and left.

As her footsteps faded down the hall, a deep, suffocating rage settled in my chest. I hated cancer. I hated that it would rob me of the chance to know Rhian. Because I knew—deep in my bones, in the spaces between heartbeats—that I was meant to. I was meant to experience her beauty, her pain, her laughter.

I shut my eyes and conjured the brightness of her green irises, as if holding on to that color, that life, could fight back the sickness eating me from the inside out.

The door creaked open again. An orderly rolled in another hospital bed, the wheels squeaking against the tile. He barely looked at me as he went about his task, humming softly to himself.

I envied him.

Then again, I had begun to envy every healthy person I came across.

So this Joey would be my roommate. The guy unknowingly tasked with keeping me sane. Keeping me alive.

But I didn't need him.

His girlfriend had already taken on that role.

I tried not to dwell on the fact that Rhian had a boyfriend. But it bothered me.

More than it should have.

And somewhere, deep down, I almost blamed her for it. For not existing in my orbit. For choosing Joey over me.