We were reckless.
How did we get from kissing to you pinning me to the wall to us both on the floor in a tangle of limbs?
We made an explosion that day, Park Jimin.
And now, we are suffering the consequences of it.
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"My latte macchiato was cold this morning!"
"I missed my bus so I had to walk here."
So many petty complaints when there are people out there truly hurting. So many petty complaints thrown around like a seed tossed in the wind.
That's how I felt that day in the doctor's office.
A dry, withered seed being tossed aimlessly by the wind as it toyed with me and sent me spiraling out of control.
The stinging smell of iodoform entered my nose along with rubber and cotton. Everything around me was pale, devoid of colors.
The squeaking sound as the doctor shifted on his little stool, the soft clicks as he typed on the keyboard. Somewhere next door, someone coughing.
Oh yes, and my mother's crying.
That was the sound that filled my ears.
"I'm sorry," was all the doctor said, finally swiveling in his stupid, tiny stool and looked at my mother and I.
I stared blankly back at the doctor.
"Is it really... is there truly no cure?" My mother weeps.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, and he sounded genuine. "The disease has progressed too far."
I didn't care. I couldn't care. I couldn't feel anything.
The doctor turned his gaze to me.
"You only have 65 days left to live. At most."
While people were complaining about their cold coffee and having to walk because they missed their bus, I sat silently as I learned I had two months and five days at most remaining of my life.
