Death lurks everywhere if you truly look. It's in the wilting flowers on the windowsill, the spider crushed beneath a careless shoe, the forgotten bread growing mould in the back of the cupboard—all inescapable proof that nothing lasts forever.

But when you're young, death feels like a distant notion—something that happens to other people in other places. It's not real, not tangible.

Until suddenly, it is.

It crashes down around you, shattering the illusion of invincibility that youth provides. One moment, you're daydreaming about university, planning gap year adventures, imagining your first flat and the exciting life ahead. The next, it's all gone. Ripped away instantly with words that don't make sense but somehow change everything.

I'm sitting in the waiting room, wedged between my mum and dad on uncomfortable plastic chairs. The walls are a sickly shade of green, probably meant to be calming but achieving the opposite effect. Posters about various illnesses stare down at us, their messages somehow mocking at this moment.

My leg won't stop bouncing, a nervous tic I've had since childhood. Mum reaches over and places her hand on my knee, stilling the movement. I look up at her, catching the worry in her eyes before she can mask it with a reassuring smile.

"It'll be alright, Beth," she says, but her voice wavers slightly.

Dad clears his throat, his go-to move when he's uncomfortable. "Your mum's right. No use getting worked up before we know anything."

But that's the thing. We do know something. The doctor wouldn't have called us in so urgently if everything was fine. The tests were supposed to be routine, to rule things out. It's a formality, really.

I think back to the past few months, mentally cataloguing the symptoms I'd brushed off as nothing. The constant fatigue I'd blamed on late nights revising for A-levels. The nagging back pain I'd attributed to lugging around heavy textbooks. Occasional nausea I'd written off as stress about university applications.

It was Mum who finally convinced me to see the GP. She noticed the weight I'd lost and how my favourite jeans hung loose on my hips. I'd been secretly pleased, thinking my diet was finally paying off. But Mum, with her uncanny maternal instinct, sensed something wasn't right.

"Better safe than sorry," she'd said, booking the appointment despite my protests.

Now, sitting in this waiting room with that ominous phone call hanging over us, I wish I'd listened to her sooner. Maybe if we'd caught it earlier, but I can't think like that. Not yet. We don't know anything for certain.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second feeling like an eternity. A toddler in the corner plays with some toys, blissfully unaware of the tension surrounding him. His mum scrolls through her phone, occasionally glancing up to ensure he behaves.

I envy both the child's innocence and the mother's casual boredom; what I wouldn't give to be here for something else, something easily fixed with a course of antibiotics or a referral to a specialist.

Instead, we're waiting for news that could change everything—news that could steal away my future, dreams, and life. It doesn't feel real. This morning, I debated which university offers to accept while on the phone with Nathan, my best friend, playing dress up with my little sister, and planning a day out with my family.

How quickly everything can change.

Dad's leg starts bouncing now, mimicking my earlier nervousness. Mum looks at him, and he stills, offering a sheepish smile. "Sorry," he mumbles.

I want to tell him it's okay, that they don't have to pretend to be strong for me. But the words stick in my throat. Speaking them aloud would make this situation real. It would acknowledge the fear that's threatening to choke me.

So instead, I reach out and take their hands, one on each side. We sit like that, a united front against whatever news comes our way.

The receptionist's phone rings, startling us all. She speaks in hushed tones, then looks our way. "Elizabeth Reid?" she calls out. "The doctor will see you now."

My parents stand, but I remain frozen in my seat. This is it. The moment everything changes. Once we step through that door, there's no going back. No more pretending this is just a routine check-up.

"Beth?" Mum says gently. "Come on, love."

I nod, willing my legs to work. As I stand, a wave of dizziness washes over me. Another symptom I'd ignored, chalking it up to skipping breakfast most mornings in my rush to get to college.

We walk towards the doctor's office, each step feeling like wading through treacle. The corridor stretches endlessly before us, and our footsteps echo ominously.

I catch sight of my reflection in a glass cabinet. I look pale, and my usually rosy cheeks are ashen. Dark circles ring my eyes.

Is this what dying looks like? The thought intrudes unbidden, and I quickly push it away. We don't know anything yet. It could still be nothing. It's just a scare, a close call we'll laugh about years from now.

But deep down, in a place I've been trying to ignore, I know. I've known for a while. The way my body has been betraying me, the unexplained pains and exhaustion. The gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is very, very wrong.

We reach the doctor's door. Dad raises his hand to knock, then hesitates, looking back at me. "Ready?" he asks.

I'm not. I'll never be ready for this. But I nod anyway, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. Whatever news awaits us on the other side of that door, I'll face it head-on. I have to.

Dad knocks, and a muffled voice calls for us to enter. As he turns the handle, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come.

The doctor's office is small but tidy, with certificates lining the walls and a desk piled high with files. Dr Patel looks up as we enter, her kind face creased with concern.

"Elizabeth," she says, gesturing to the chairs before her desk. "Mr and Mrs Reid. Please, have a seat."

We settle into the chairs, the atmosphere tense. Dr Patel shuffles some more papers and then meets my eyes.

"I'm afraid I have some difficult news," she begins, and just like that, my world crumbles.

I stare at Dr Patel, trying to make sense of the words she says. My brain feels foggy like I'm trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

"Elizabeth," she says gently. "I'm so sorry, but after running the tests multiple times to be certain, we've confirmed that you have stage four pancreatic cancer. It's... it's very advanced."

Cancer. The word echoes, bouncing around like a ping-pong ball. Cancer. Me. Elizabeth. Seventeen years old. Cancer.

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense.

I feel Mum's hand tighten around mine and hear Dad's sharp intake of breath. But I can't look at them. I'm frozen, staring at Dr Patel's kind, sympathetic face, wanting her to take it back. To say it's all been a horrible mistake.

She's still talking, her lips moving, forming words I should probably be listening to. But I can't focus. It's like I'm underwater, everything muffled and distorted.

I try to ground myself and focus on something, anything real. The tick of the clock on the wall. The feel of the cheap plastic chair beneath me. The faint smell of disinfectant that seems to permeate every doctor's office.

"...palliative care..." Dr Patel's voice fades in and out. "...manage symptoms...quality of life..."

My chest feels tight. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I can't breathe. I can't think. This can't be happening. Not to me. Not now.

I catch snippets of the conversation around me, words that should terrify me but somehow feel distant, like they're talking about someone else.

"...prepare yourselves..."

"...limited time..."

"...make her comfortable..."

Make her comfortable. Those words cut through the fog in my brain. They don't say that unless... unless there's no hope. Unless you're dying.

My mind races, thoughts spiralling out of control. What about uni? I was supposed to start next year. What about travelling? I've never even been outside of the UK. What about falling in love? Having my first proper relationship?

What about Nathan? Oh god, Nathan. My best friend since we were babies. How am I supposed to tell him? How will he react when he finds out I'm... dying?

And Meri. My little sister. Only six years old. Too young to lose a sister. Too young to have to deal with all of this. Who's going to help her with her homework? Who will threaten to punch the first boy who breaks her heart?

"Beth, honey, are you with us?"

Mum's voice cuts through the fog in my brain. I blink, realising they're all staring at me. How long have I been zoned out?

"Sorry," I mumble, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "I just... it's a lot to take in."

Dr Patel nods understandingly. "Of course it is. This is overwhelming news, and feeling shocked and scared is perfectly normal."

Scared doesn't even begin to describe my feelings. I'm terrified, angry, and confused. I'm experiencing a million emotions simultaneously and don't know how to deal with them.

"What... what happens now?" I asked, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.

Dr Patel leans forward, her hands clasped on her desk. "Elizabeth, I wish I had better news. The cancer is very advanced. At this stage, we can't cure it."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Can't cure it. I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die.

"How long?" I whisper, not sure I want to hear the answer.

She takes a deep breath. "Without treatment, maybe three to four months. With palliative chemotherapy, we might be able to extend that to six months, possibly a bit longer. But I have to be honest—it won't be easy."

Six months. Half a year. That's all I have left. It's May now, so by November... I'll be gone. I'll never see another Christmas. Never graduate college.

My mind races, grasping at dates, at milestones I'll miss. Meri's birthday is next month — at least I'll be there for that. But Nathan's is in August. Will I even make it that far? My birthday is in October, which is cutting it close. Mum and Dad's birthdays have already passed this year. Was that the last time I'd ever celebrate with them?

I'm going to die.

I'm going to die before the leaves fall from the trees, before the first snow. Before I get to do so many things I always thought I had time for.

"No," Dad's voice breaks the silence. "There must be something else we can do—some experimental treatment, or..."

Dr Patel shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Mr Reid. We've looked at all the options. At this stage, the focus must be on Elizabeth's quality of life."

"Quality of life?" Mum chokes out, tears streaming down her face. "She's seventeen. She's supposed to have her whole life ahead of her."

I reach out and take her hand, surprised at how calm I feel. Maybe I'm in shock now. "It's okay, Mum," I say softly, even though it's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.

Dr Patel continues, "The focus now will be on making you as comfortable as possible and managing your symptoms. Palliative chemotherapy can help shrink the tumour, which might ease some of your pain and other symptoms. But it's not about curing the cancer — it's about giving you the best quality of life possible for the time you have left."

The time I have left. God, how can this be real?

"We'll set you up with a care team," she explains. "They'll work with you to manage it all. We'll also want you to meet with a counsellor — dealing with a terminal diagnosis is incredibly difficult, and it's important to take care of your mental health as well."

I nod numbly, trying to take it all in. Palliative care. Counsellor. Terminal diagnosis. It all sounds so final, so terrifying.

"Do you have any questions?" Dr Patel asks.

I have a million questions, but only one makes it past my lips. "Will it hurt?"

Her eyes soften. "We'll do everything possible to ensure it doesn't, Elizabeth. That's our top priority."

Dad clears his throat, his voice rough. "What about college? Can she still go?"

"For now, yes," Dr Patel nods. "As long as Elizabeth feels up to it. But there may come a time when it becomes too difficult."

Too difficult. Because I'll be too sick. Because I'll be dying.

"Any other questions?"

Before I can ask anymore, Mum lets out a heart-wrenching sob. It's like a dam breaking. She collapses forward, her whole body shaking, face buried in her hands.

"No, no, no," she wails, her voice muffled and broken. "Not my baby. Please, not my Beth."

Dad reaches for her, his own eyes brimming with tears, but she shrugs him off. Instead, she grabs my hand, clutching it so tight it almost hurts.

"There has to be something," she pleads, looking at Dr Patel through tears. "Anything. We'll remortgage the house; we'll fly anywhere in the world. Just please, save my little girl."

Dr Patel shakes her head slowly. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Reid. I truly wish there was more we could do."

Mum breaks down again, her sobs echoing in the small office. Dad's trying to comfort her, his own tears falling silently. And me? I'm just... numb. I'm watching it all like I'm not really here, like this is happening to someone else.

I should be crying too, shouldn't I? Screaming, raging against the unfairness of it all. But I feel... nothing. Just a strange hollow emptiness as I watch my parents' world crumble around me.

May to November. Six months. Half a year. How can that possibly be all the time I have left?

"Do you have any other questions, Elizabeth?" Dr Patel asks, looking at me.

I shake my head. "Not right now. I think... I need some time to process all this."

She nods. "Of course. It's a lot to take in. Here," she hands me a stack of pamphlets and papers. "This information might be helpful. And please, don't hesitate to call if you have any questions or concerns, day or night."

We stand to leave, my legs feeling wobbly beneath me. As we reach the door, Dr Patel calls out, "Elizabeth?"

I turn back to look at her.

"I know this is scary," she says softly. "But you're not alone in this. We're going to do everything we can to ensure you're comfortable and have the best quality of life possible, okay?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As we leave her office and enter the corridor, I feel like I'm in a bubble. Everything looks the same—nurses walking by, other people going to see their doctors—but everything has changed.

Mum's sobbing quietly, her hand clutching mine as if I'm going to vanish out of thin air. Dad's jaw is clenched tight, his eyes blank. I should comfort them somehow, but I don't know how. How do you comfort your parents when you're the one who's dying?

We reach the car, and I slide into the backseat, suddenly exhausted. As Dad starts the engine, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I look the same. No different than I did this morning when I left for college, grumbling about missing afternoon lessons for a doctor's appointment.

But everything is different now. I'm different now.

I'm Elizabeth Reid. I'm seventeen years old. I have stage four terminal pancreatic cancer.

And I have no idea what happens next.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​