I felt someone tap my wrist, startling me awake. I shivered under the the thin hospital blanket, wishing there was something warmer, and sat up.

"Ah!" The nurse, a pretty black lady looked up, startled. "Sleeping beauty has joined us. I need to ask some questions, answer honestly, alright?"

I nodded and she continued. "Have you been experiencing periods of nausea or weakness?"

"Yes," I answered.

She wrote something down. "Have you lost weight without being on a diet or trying?"

I nodded, thinking of Patrick and how he picked me up like it was nothing. I was never necessarily on the bigger side, but never light. I always was doing sports and working out, which gave me some muscles. Muscle weighs more than fat, therefore I was one of the heavier people in weight. Not to mention my recent muddy buddy purge, which probably made me gain a few pounds. No, he shouldn't have been able to do that.

The nurse pursed her lips and wrote again. "Any pain or tenderness at a touch?" She held up a hand to stop me, "Never mind, that's what you're in for." She stood and shook my hand, giving me a sad glance before going to get the doctor.

A women in a white coat walked in, brown ponytail swinging behind her. The nurse followed. "I never know how to say this kindly, so I'll just say it." The doctor said, "Bailey, you have cancer. Chronic leukemia. These symptoms can take years to show, so I estimate with them at this force you have only a couple months."

"A-A couple months?" I asked shakily.

"To live." She confirmed. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as she knelt beside me. "Bailey, you do have cancer. That's the fact. But that doesn't mean you can't live, fall in love, laugh, be happy. Cancer can't take that from you, only you can. You decide how to take this. From what your friends were saying, I hear you're an excellent, happy girl. Stay positive." She sniffed a little, "I always hate this. You're so young. My mother died of cancer, it kills me every time I tell someone they might, too."

"Might?" I asked. From what I knew of leukemia, having it made you pretty much doomed.

"Might." She clarified. "I've seen people with your diagnosis live for a long, long time and die naturally. It depends on you and your supporters. Those people had family and friends who encouraged them. The people who die fastest have nothing and no one. It causes them stress."

I nodded. The doctor stood. "Rely on your family. If you need us, we're always here." The nurse nodded encouragingly and let Patrick, who had a wheelchair, in the room. As they set it up, he asked me, "So, what is it?"

I had known from the second he entered, his smile as big and bright as always, that no one had told him. "It's-" I looked to the nurse for support. She motioned for me to continue. "It's this reaction to the jet-um-chemicals. It's messed me up, I guess." The nurse glared at me and I shrugged helplessly.

"I've never heard of that." Patrick said absentmindedly.

"Me neither." The nurse muttered, lifting me into the chair. She whispered, "Don't make this harder on yourself. Tell him." In my ear.

"I will." I promised. "Just not...now."

Patrick stood there, grinning like a fool and my heart broke. How many more times would I get to see him like this?

We wheeled out of the hospital and left the chair with the nurse. We waved goodbye and walked out into the parking lot. Pete hugged me, "Bailey-what's your middle name-"

"Serena." I told him tiredly.

"Bailey Serena James, don't ever scare me like that again!" He scolded. We passed a women holding a box of something and she caught up with us, stopping Andy first.

"Please, support cancer patients." She said, holding out a box of various colored ribbons. Joe took the orange leukemia one and put it in his hair. Patrick took a pink one, proudly pinning it onto his shirt. Andy took a gray one for brain cancer. The only ones left in the box were a gold children's cancer and another orange. Pete grabbed the gold, leaving me staring at the last ribbon.

Leukemia. My disease.

Looking around, I suddenly noticed all the people wearing pink breast cancer march shirts, or even just plain orange ones for Halloween, which was coming up. Feeling choked, I turned to Patrick, who was giving me a weird look. "Bailey? Do you want mine?" He asked.

"No," I gasped, grabbing the ribbon. "I just had a mind blank for a second."

As we walked out of there, I wondered how many lies I would tell Patrick before I either died or told him.

Whichever came first.