The Fault in Our Infinities

Chapter 23: Last Goodbye

When you said your last goodbye

I died a little bit inside

I lay in tears in bed all night

Alone without you by my side

...

So you bought out the best of me

A part of me I'd never seen

You took my soul and wiped it clean

Our love was made for movie screens

...

But if you loved me

Why'd you leave me?

Take my body

Take my body

All I want is

And all I need is

To find somebody

I'll find somebody

- Kodaline

I hear them say it. The doctors. I'm dying.

I already know that, of course. The words have immersed themselves into all my memories. They border the images of my childhood, they're engraved into the pictures of my teenage days, they're the music behind my time at college. The words run on repeat; I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying.

I told myself once, when the pain became too much, that I wouldn't let myself forget. I would remember it always – that I am a walking corpse. I wouldn't get too comfortable with life, because mine is so short that I cannot truly live it.

I float in and out of consciousness for a few days. Breathing is difficult, but the doctors alleviate the load from my chest – they feed me oxygen through a tube, but it's not much use. My lungs are fighting helplessly against an already victorious cancer. It's a civil war with a predetermined winner.

I hear Mum and Dad weep at my bedside a few times. They're afraid of losing their only child; their daughter. They're afraid of the time when they won't be parents anymore. That's the thought that kills me inside. My mum is the type of person who always needs to be looking after someone; who will she have when I am gone?

I don't see Augustus for a while. They don't let him in.

When I wake, he's the first person I ask to see. It hurts my parents, I think, but they understand. He's the only person on my mind, the only name on my lips.

He steps in, looking haggard. He wears a baggy grey hooded jacket and it's zipped up to his chin, his hands in his pockets. I hate how much he has let his own pride slip. His shoulders are slumped and his blue eyes are dark with a sadness so profound that I have to look away.

"Hi," he says eventually, his voice croaky. "How're you feeling?"

"One week."

"What?"

"I have one week." I don't show him my sadness; I don't cry. He needs to think that I'm strong, that I fought cancer bravely and with unwavering persistence. That's what all the stories say, right? That's what I should do.

I hear him suck in a sharp breath. He runs a hand through his lank, dark hair and I see his lip wobble slightly. "One...one week."

"Seven days, Gus." I confirm. "Maybe less."

He nods, the movement exaggerated. I think he's trying to show me that he can cope with the pain, but I know he can't. I can see it in his eyes, in the tiny tremble of his hands, in the restless shift of his weight. He can't accept my death, despite telling me before that he could.