When The Sea Meets The Sky

Chapter 1: Three Months

The doctor's office feels colder than usual, a clinical silence hanging in the air. Rin sits across from him, her gaze fixed on the gray sky outside the window. The doctor's words filter through the quiet, carefully measured, softened by a tone meant for bad news.

"Stage IV metastatic lung cancer," he says, his voice tinged with something she doesn't often hear from him-concern. She watches his reflection in the glass, noting the way his brow creases, the weight of his gaze lingering on her face. "It's... quite rare, actually, for someone as young as you to be diagnosed with this."

There's a pause, a silence he seems to expect her to fill with questions or disbelief. But she remains quiet, indifferent, her fingers tracing a small chip in the wooden arm of her chair. His words echo faintly in her mind, a detached reminder of the countdown she's known was coming, even if she didn't know when or how.

"Three months, at best," he adds gently, his tone edged with sympathy. "I know this must be overwhelming."

Overwhelming. The word feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. She glances away from the sky, finally meeting his gaze with a blank expression. She sees the worry in his eyes, that strange mix of pity and confusion reserved for people who are supposed to fear death. She knows he doesn't understand why she isn't reacting, why she doesn't flinch or ask questions.

In truth, Rin's never expected to live a long life, nor has she ever really wanted one. She thinks of her family-a father who drinks more than he speaks, a mother who's barely more than a shadow in her life, always preoccupied with her own troubles. Home was never a place of comfort. It was a place she was resigned to leave someday, and now it seems that someday has arrived.

"Are you sure there's nothing you want to ask?" The doctor's voice is softer now, patient, as though trying to reach her through the fog of her apathy.

Rin sighs, offering a faint, almost wry smile. "There's nothing left to ask."

She sees him deflate slightly, disappointment clouding his expression. She knows he's seen countless reactions to terminal diagnoses-tears, fear, denial-but her response unsettles him. But she can't pretend to care for his comfort any more than she cares for her own future. She simply waits, watching the clouds gather in the sky, a promise of rain she may or may not be around to see.

When Rin finally steps into the hospital lobby, she feels an odd sense of calm. She's just waiting for a room, a process that feels absurdly normal given what she's learned. She finds a seat and lets her gaze wander, catching sight of a boy around her age. He's sitting a few seats away, leaning forward, his expression caught somewhere between weariness and resolve.

She knows she doesn't owe anyone explanations, least of all a stranger, yet something compels her to speak.

"Why are you here?"

The boy looks up, surprised by her question. There's something clear and almost defiant in his eyes, something that pulls her out of her own indifference, if only for a moment.

"I'll recover in three months," he says. His voice is steady, confident.

Rin raises an eyebrow. "Three months?" The number strikes her, a strange coincidence she's only just begun to process herself.

"What about you?" he asks, his voice soft but probing, as though already sensing something about her.

"Three months," she replies, not meeting his gaze. "But I don't get a recovery."

His reaction is immediate. There's a flash of anger, and he mutters something under his breath, barely loud enough to reach her ears. When he speaks again, his voice is tense. "You're terminally ill...? And you look so calm?"