I’m going to die soon.


These were the five words your pretty little mouth would utter every time you wanted something very badly. I didn’t know that when I first met you. All I thought—being a silly 15-year-old teenage guy—was that you were one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen in my life. Do you remember? I was hanging around the beach with my friends when I saw you swimming out in the open blue sea, wearing that white and red polka-dotted one-piece. Later on when I asked, you grimaced and said you hated polka dots—they made you look fat. I didn’t say it that time but I think you looked just right. It’s already been five months since then and I got to know a lot about you. Your favorite color is orange, warm and bright just like your smile. Why don’t you smile anymore? You like frilly and fuzzy stuff, although you don’t want to admit it. You’re filthy rich. You’re a spoiled brat. You scrunch up your nose—in a cute way—whenever it itches. And you’re going to die in three weeks.


That’s the most horrible thing. I only learned about it a week ago when I overheard your family doctor talking to your parents. Your dad sounded grim and your mother sounded like she would faint any minute. I wanted to barge right into the room and tell him he was making a huge mistake. But that wouldn’t change anything, would it? You knew it yourself.


Right now, I’m watching you from the window of your mansion. You’re in the garden arguing with your dad. Things aren’t going your way again. You’re tired of your wheelchair, you say, and you want the brand new model that you saw on TV last night. Your dad keeps shaking his head, saying it’ll just be a waste of money and he’s almost successful in refusing—until you say those five hateful words again: “I’m going to die soon.”


I want to scream. I want to run to you, grab your shoulders and shake some sense into you. My 3rd grade teacher used to repeat over and over again: “If you think you’re going to lose, then you really will.” I want to shout those words to you right now, because you’ve obviously accepted the fact that you’re going to die. I haven’t yet, so please don’t give up. Stop saying those words. They’re starting to appear in my nightmares, torturing me, reminding me of how short my time with you is. I want to get mad at you for giving up so soon, but I can’t. I want to—your head suddenly turns in my direction as if you heard what I was thinking. Now you’re smiling mischievously and rolling your chair towards the door, towards me. Why are you smiling? Why only now? A lump is forming in my throat. I take back what I thought before—you’re not one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen—no, you’re at the top of the list.


I decide to say them now: those three words that no 15-year-old guy would ever seriously dare to say. Even though you’re the most spoiled brat I’ve ever met. Even though you told me you had a crush on that lifeguard at the beach. Even though you’ll probably laugh at me and tell me I’m being ridiculous. Even though my chest is pounding and I can feel the blood rushing to my head. So I say them. Those three little words that have been in my mind ever since the day I met you. Your jaw drops open and your eyes nearly pop out of your head. I hang my head, feeling my face get hot and my palms get sweaty as I stare at the cold green marble floor. Then I hear your reply. And I raise my head slowly to see if I heard right. Sure enough, your cheeks are as red, if not redder than mine. You come closer, maneuvering your wheelchair, tears in your eyes. I bend down and gently press my lips to your forehead, still dazed by your unexpected reply. We’re lost in our own little world, unaware of the servants and your parents staring at us from different viewpoints. As I pull you closer, memorizing the warmth of your body, I hear you vow never to say those five words again. Now all we can do is pray for a miracle.