The wind on Our backs

22- Nights like this

Adrien's POV
The nights are the hardest. I lie there with pain crawling up my spine, spreading to my ribs, keeping me awake even though my body is exhausted. I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up, heart pounding in my chest like an alarm bell. Every time I drift off for even a short nap, there's this suffocating fear. What if I don't wake up? And when I do open my eyes, there's a rush of relief that hits so hard it knocks the breath out of me. I'm still here, still alive. But then the panic creeps back in. It's like that cycle never stops.

This morning, I ran my fingers through my hair—what's left of it—and a chunk came out. The chemo's to blame for that. My mom offered to help me shave it all off, and I didn't mind, really. It's just hair, right? But I'd always liked my long, brown waves. It was one of the few things about myself I felt proud of. Dad swept up the strands from the floor like they were nothing, but to me, it felt like another piece of me disappearing. I took a picture of my newly shaven head and sent it to Rachel with some dumb caption.

"Guess who's joining the bald club?"

I tried to laugh it off. She joked back, "Does the wind feel cooler now?". It helped me, a little.

I look at myself now, though, and I can't pretend it doesn't sting. My reflection just stares back, gaunt and hollow-eyed, like a reminder that I'm not getting better, that this is what dying looks like. I've started covering the mirrors in my room. I don't want to see it, don't want to keep confronting that reality every time I catch a glimpse. Rachel asked me once why I didn't want my picture taken anymore, and I shrugged it off with a joke about being ugly. It was easier than admitting the truth—that I don't want to see how sick I look, how close I am to the end.

Today, for the first time in a month, I felt this unfamiliar heaviness behind my eyelids. Actual sleepiness. I lay down, letting it pull me under, and soon I was dreaming. It was Thomas. Young Thomas, sitting on a slide like he was waiting for me, just like the first time we met. He called out, asking me to go down the slide with him, so I did. We played like we used to, and then we sat in the sand pit, side by side. He looked at me with those same blue eyes, apologized for everything—the drinking, the messes he made that I had to clean up. I told him he was always forgiven, that I still miss him more than he could know. I even admitted, "I still need you, Thomas."

He wrapped his arms around me, but there was this sadness in his voice as he said he couldn't be there for me anymore. He said I had someone else to look forward to, someone who needed me just as much as I needed him once. I knew he meant Rachel. As he faded away, I saw him again, a younger version of himself, smiling at me like the old days, before everything went wrong.

I woke up with my face wet. I wiped the tears away, confused, but there they were. I just sat there and cried, the kind of crying that you don't realize you're doing until you can't hold it back anymore.

It wasn't even 12 p.m. yet. I'd fallen asleep sometime around 11. I thought about calling Rachel. I even reached for my phone, but then I stopped myself. What was I supposed to say? That I needed her to comfort me? She's just a kid, and I'm the one who's supposed to be making her smile, not burden her down with my own stupid fears. I don't want her to remember me like that.

And then my phone buzzed. It was Rachel, calling me. I picked up, and she asked if I was okay. I told her I'd just woken up, and she immediately apologized, thinking she might've woken me up. I reassured her it wasn't her fault. She said she just wanted to check up on me, that maybe she could come over tomorrow after her classes. I didn't turn her down. I could use her company more than I'd like to admit.

After we hung up, I couldn't shake off the dream. I got out of bed, went to find my painkillers, and while rummaging through a drawer, I came across an old photo of Thomas. Sixteen, on a swing, mid-laugh. I'd taken it without him knowing, the flash catching him off guard. Right next to that picture was one of Rachel, sitting on our favorite bench. It was just like the one of Thomas—all candid, all unposed. I guess I was always afraid of forgetting the faces of the people I loved, like they might vanish from my mind if I didn't have a way to hold onto them.

I smiled at the thought, at my own small attempts to keep them with me. And then, before I knew it, I was crying again, alone with the pictures and the memories, wondering how long I could keep doing this. How much more I could take.