I take a deep breath as Dad's car approaches the college. Normally I would have driven, but I hadn't even got into my car since before the diagnosis.

I wasn't sure why.

For a moment, I consider asking him to turn around and bring me back home. But I force the thought away. I can do this. I have to do this.

"You sure you're up for this, Beth?" Dad asks, his brow furrowed.

I nod, trying to look more confident than I feel. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'll be fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue. "Alright. But if you need me to get you, call. Okay?"

"Okay," I agree, leaning over to hug him. "Thanks, Dad."

I climb out of the car, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. The campus looks the same as always — red brick buildings, neatly trimmed lawns, students milling about. It should feel normal. I want it to feel normal so badly.

But the moment I step through the gates, I can feel the change in the air. Everyone's holding their breath, waiting for me to do something. Explode, maybe. Or burst into tears. Or drop dead on the spot.

I keep my head down, ignoring the whispers that follow me like a toxic cloud. But it's impossible not to hear snippets of conversations as I enter the building and towards my locker.

"Is that her? The one with cancer?"

"God, she looks awful. Do you think she's in pain?"

"I heard she's only got a few months left."

Each word is like a knife twisting in my gut. I want to scream at them, to tell them I can hear every word. That I'm still me, I'm still Beth, not some exhibit in a freak show for them to gawk at.

But I don't. I just keep walking.

At my locker, I fumble with the combination, my hands shaking. It takes three tries before I finally open it. As I get books out, I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"Beth! Oh my god, I'm so glad you're here!"

I turn to see Sophia, a girl from my English class. We've never been close, but now she's looking at me like we're best friends. Her eyes are wide with pity and fascination that makes my skin crawl.

"Hi," I manage, trying to smile. It feels more like a grimace.

"How are you feeling?" she asks. "We've all been so worried about you."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. 'We've all been so worried.' Right. Because we talk so often.

"I'm fine," I say, the lie tasting bitter. "Just taking it day by day, you know?"

Sophia nods enthusiastically. "Of course, of course. You're so brave, Beth. I don't know how you do it."

I want to tell her that I'm not brave. That I'm terrified. Every morning, I wake up wondering if this will be the day the pain becomes unbearable, or my hair starts falling out, or I get so weak I can't even get out of bed.

Instead, I shrug. "Thanks. I should get to class."

"Oh, right!" Sophia says, stepping aside. "If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know, okay?"

I nod and hurry off to my first class. Chemistry. Great. Just what I need right now.

As I enter the lecture hall, the chatter dies down. Everyone turns to stare at me, their eyes full of questions they're too afraid to ask. I fix my eyes on the floor as I make my way to my seat at the back of the room.

Mr Crowley, our chemistry tears, clears his throat. "Right, class. Today, we'll be continuing our study of organic compounds. If you could turn to page 127 in your textbooks..."

I try to focus on the lesson; I do. But my mind keeps wandering. I find myself staring at the periodic table on the wall, wondering which of these elements are in the drugs they're going to be pumping into my body. Which ones are supposed to save me, and which ones are slowly killing me?

The girl next to me — Laura, I think her name is — keeps shooting me glances. Finally, she leans over and whispers, "Are you okay? You look a bit pale."

I nod, not wanting to speak. I'm not okay. I'm so far from okay that I can't even remember what okay feels like anymore.

Maybe if I keep my head down, everyone will ignore me.

But then I hear the whispers.

"Did you see her? She looks so pale."

"I wonder if she's going to lose her hair."

"My Gran had cancer. She was fine after chemo."

"Do you think she'll die in class?"

I clench my fists, trying to block out the voices. My chest feels tight, my heart racing. I can't do this. I can't sit here and listen to them talk about me like I'm already dead.

The room starts to spin, the whispers growing louder and louder until they're all I can hear. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I need to get out of here. I need to run, hide, and go somewhere where no one knows and where no one looks at me with those pitying eyes.

But I'm frozen in my seat, panic rising like a tidal wave. I can't move. I can't breathe.

I can't focus on anything. My hands are shaking, and sweat is beading on my forehead. God, I wish Nathan was here. He'd know what to do, and he'd make it better.

Nathan. My best friend. The one person who's always been there for me. And what did I do? I ignored him. Shut him out when he was trying to help. Now, sitting in this classroom that feels more like a prison, I'd give anything to have him by my side.

He should be in Social Studies right now, just a few corridors away. So close, yet so far. I'm stuck here in Chemistry, surrounded by people who claim to care but don't understand. They can't understand. How could they?

I try to take a deep breath, but it catches in my throat. My chest feels tight, like a weight pressing down on it. The room seems to spin more and faces blur together in a nauseating swirl.

"Hey, is she okay?" I hear someone whisper. "She looks like she's about to be sick."

Another voice chimes in, "Maybe we should call the nurse?"

But I'm not about to be sick. At least not in the way they think. This is different. This is panic, pure and simple. It claws at my insides and makes my heart race so fast I'm sure it's going to burst right out of my chest.

I need to calm down. I can't lose it here, not in front of everyone. They're already treating me like I'm made of glass; I don't need to give them more reason to whisper and stare.

With shaking hands, I reach into my bag and pull out a water bottle. The cool plastic against my palm grounds me a little. I twist the cap off and take a long drink.

Breathe, Beth. Just breathe.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the curious glances and hushed whispers around me. In for four, hold for four, out for four, just like Nathan had taught me—the thought of my best friend sends a pang through my chest. I should have called him back. I shouldn't be pushing him away.

Another deep breath. In, hold, out.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I feel the vice grip of panic starts to loosen. My heart rate begins to slow, and the roaring in my ears quiets to a dull hum.

I can do this. I can make it through this class without making a fool of myself. Without proving to everyone that I'm as weak and pathetic as they probably think I am.

Opening my eyes, I force myself to focus on Mr Crowley's lecture. The words still don't make much sense, floating past me in a jumble of chemical compounds and reaction rates. But at least I'm not on the verge of bolting anymore.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. I catch maybe one word in ten of what Mr Crowley's saying. When the bell finally rings, I'm the first one out the door.

I lean against the wall in the hallway, trying to catch my breath. It feels like I've run a marathon.

As I'm standing there, I overhear two girls talking nearby. They don't seem to realise I can hear them.

"Did you see her in Crowley's class? She looked like she was about to pass out."

"I know. Do you think she should even be here? What if she, like, collapses or something?"

"God, can you imagine? That would be so awkward for her and annoying for us."

I clench my fists, anger bubbling up inside me. Awkward? Is that what they think this is? An inconvenience?

I push off the wall, ready to confront them, to tell them exactly what I think of their 'awkward' situation. But as I turn, I catch sight of my reflection in a nearby window.

I look... sick. Pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes. For a moment, I don't even recognise myself. Is this really what everyone's seeing when they look at me?

The fight drains out of me, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. What's the point in arguing? It won't change anything. It won't make me better. It won't stop me from dying.

Because that's the truth. No matter how much everyone tiptoes around it or how many euphemisms they use. I'm dying. And I'm terrified.

I go to my next class on autopilot, barely aware of my surroundings. English Literature is usually one of my favourite subjects, but today, the words on the page might as well be in a foreign language.

We're studying "Hamlet." The irony isn't lost on me as Mr Johnson drones on about mortality and the fragility of life. I fixate on that famous line: "To be, or not to be."

What a luxury to have that choice—to weigh up the pros and cons of existence and decide whether it's worth the struggle. I don't get that choice. My body's already made it for me.

The rest of the morning passes in a similar haze. In every class, I feel the weight of stares on me. Some were curious, some were pitying, and some were almost excited as if my illness was the most interesting thing to happen in this college in years.

By lunchtime, I'm exhausted. The thought of facing the cafeteria, with its noise, crowds, and inevitable whispers, is too much to bear. Instead, I find myself wandering outside, seeking some quiet.

I end up under a tree at the far end of the grounds. It's peaceful here, away from the stares and whispers. I lean back against the rough bark, closing my eyes.

For a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where I'm not sick, where my biggest worry is what university I'll get into or whether Nathan likes me as more than a friend—a normal life.

But it's just a fantasy. The reality is that I'm here, wondering how many more lunchtimes like this I'll have—wondering if I'll even make it to graduation.

The afternoon classes are similar: stares, whispers, and well-meaning but clueless teacher comments. When the final bell rings, I feel like I'm about to shatter into a million pieces.

As I gather my things from my locker, I overhear another conversation about me.

"I heard she's got some rare type of cancer. Super aggressive."

"Yeah, my mum's friend had cancer. She said the treatment's almost worse than the disease."

"Do you think her hair will fall out?"

Something inside me snaps. Before I know what I'm doing, I slam my locker shut and start running. I don't care where I'm going; I just need to get away. Away from the pity, the speculation, the constant reminder of what I'm facing.

I burst out of the main doors, gulping in the fresh air. But it's not enough. It's still not enough.

So I keep running. Past the college gates, down the street, my feet pounding against the pavement. I don't know where I'm going until I'm halfway there.

Our spot. Mine and Nathan's.

It's in the woods next to the college, a place we discovered in our first year. In the middle, there's a giant oak tree, its branches spreading wide, creating a canopy of leaves above. The massive trunk is big enough for two people to sit comfortably.

I slow as I reach the edge of the woods, my lungs burning. I'm so weak now, so pathetic. I only just made it to the end of the day before fleeing like a scared child. What's wrong with me?

But as I stumble through the familiar path, pushing past low-hanging branches and stepping over gnarled roots, I feel happy. This place has always been safe and always been ours.

The oak tree comes into view, and I let out a shaky breath. I drop my bag at the base of the tree and haul myself up onto the trunk, lying down.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.

Nathan. God, I need him. I need my best friend.

With trembling hands, I pull out my phone. There are dozens of missed calls and messages from him, each a stab of guilt in my gut. How could I have ignored him like that? He must be so worried.

I hover my thumb over his name in my contacts, but I can't bring myself to press call. What would I even say? 'Hey, sorry I ghosted you while you were freaking out about me dying. Want to come sit in our special place and pretend everything's normal?'

A bitter laugh escapes me. Normal. As if anything will ever be normal again.

I let my hand drop, the phone slipping from my grasp onto the mossy ground below. I should pick it up and call him, or my parents, or someone—anyone.

But instead, I sit there, staring up at the patches of sky visible through the leaves. The sunlight filters down, dappling the forest floor in a shifting pattern of light and shadow. It's beautiful, peaceful.

And I realise, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that this might be one of the last times I ever see it.

The thought hits me, knocking the air from my lungs. The events of the day crash over me. All the stares, the whispers — it's too much. The dam I've been desperately trying to hold together finally breaks.

I sob.

It starts as a slight hiccup and then grows into a gut-wrenching wail. I cry for the future I'll never have, for the dreams I'll never achieve, for the person I'll never get to become. I cry for my parents, for Meri, for the pain I'm causing them and for all the pain that's yet to come.

But most of all, I cry for myself. For the unfairness of it all. For the terror that grips me every time I think about what's coming. For the loneliness that threatens to swallow me whole.

Tears stream down my face, soaking into my hoodie. My whole body shakes. I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but let out all the fear and anger and despair I've been bottling up.

"Nathan," I choke out between sobs. "I need you."

I'm crying so hard. I feel so alone, so scared. I need my best friend.

Then, from somewhere to my right, I hear a voice. A voice I know better than my own.

"Well, this is a pretty sad sight, even for you, Beth."

My head whips around so fast I nearly fall off the tree trunk. And there he is.

Messy brown hair sticking up in all directions, like he's been running. That stupidly handsome face with its crooked smile. Those hazel eyes that always seem to see right through me.

It's him. It's Nathan.

He's standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking at me with worry and relief. But there's that spark of humour in his eyes that never seems to go out, even in the worst of times.

As our eyes meet, his smile softens. He steps closer, his voice gentle, "Hey there, stranger."