I wake up, and for a moment, everything feels normal. The sun's streaming through my curtains, painting my room in a soft, golden glow. I stretch, yawning, and then it hits me like a punch to the gut.

Oh yeah. I'm dying.

The realisation crashes over me, and suddenly I can't breathe. My stomach churns, and I bolt out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom. I barely make it in time before I'm hunched over the toilet, retching. There's not much to bring up — I haven't been eating well lately. When I'm done, I sit back on the cold tile floor, trembling.

I want to curl up right here and disappear. But I force myself to stand, rinse my mouth, and shuffle back to my room. My bed looks so inviting. All I want is to crawl under the covers and pretend none of this is happening. Maybe if I sleep long enough, I'll wake up and find out it was all just a bad dream.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the too-bright screen. It's only 8 AM. God, why am I awake so early? Then I see the notifications, and my heart drops.

47 missed calls. Over 100 text messages. All from Nathan.

My fingers shake as I scroll through them.

"Beth, call me."

"Are you okay?"

"Please, just let me know you're alright."

The last one makes my throat tighten.

"My parents told me... are you okay?"

He knows. Nathan knows I have cancer. He knows I'm dying.

I toss my phone aside and flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. There's a photo taped up there — me and Nathan at our high school prom. We're both grinning like idiots, his arm around my waist, my head on his shoulder. We look so happy. So normal.

I've never been good at making friends. Always too awkward, too shy, too... something. Nathan's the opposite. He could charm a rock if he tried. Sometimes, I wonder why he's stuck by me all these years when he could easily hang out with the popular crowd.

But he has. He's always been there through every awkward phase, bad day, and stupid fight. My best friend. My only friend, if I'm being honest.

I smile at the memory of that night and then immediately feel guilty. How can I smile about anything right now?

With a sigh, I force myself out of bed again. I throw on my ratty old dressing gown — the fuzzy pink one Nathan always teases me about — and head downstairs. The smell of toast wafts up the stairs, making my stomach growl. For a second, I actually feel hungry. Then I remember how sick I was earlier, and the feeling fades.

In the kitchen, Mum and Dad are already up. Mum's at the cooker, flipping pancakes. Dad's got his nose buried in the newspaper, a half-empty mug of coffee at his elbow. They both look up when I come in, and I wouldn't say I like the concern I see in their eyes.

"Morning, sweetheart," Mum says, trying to sound cheerful. "How are you feeling?"

I shrug, sliding into my usual seat at the table. "Fine, I guess."

Dad sets down his paper. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah." It's a lie, but I don't want them to worry more than they already are. "Is Meri still asleep?"

Mum nods, setting a plate of pancakes in front of me. "She had a rough night. Didn't fall asleep until nearly dawn."

I feel a pang of guilt. Meri — my little sister — hasn't been sleeping well since she found out about my diagnosis. None of us have, and it's been a week already.

"You should try to eat something," Mum says gently, pushing the plate closer.

I stare at the pancakes. They smell good, but my stomach clenches at the thought of eating them. "I'll try," I mutter.

There's an awkward silence. I can feel them watching me, wanting to see if I'll take a bite. To make them happy, I force myself to pick up my fork and cut off a tiny piece. It tastes like cardboard in my mouth.

"So," Dad says, clearly trying to sound casual. "Have you talked to Nathan yet?"

I shake my head, swallowing hard. "Not yet."

"I'm sorry, Beth," Mum said suddenly. "I told his parents. About your diagnosis. I thought they should know, and—"

"It's okay," I cut her off. "Nathan knows now, so... I guess that makes it easier. I won't have to tell him myself."

But even as I say it, I know it's not true. Nothing about this is easy.

"Are you going to talk to him?" Dad asks.

I push the pancakes around on my plate. "I'm not ready," I admit. "I don't know what to say."

How do you talk to your best friend when you're dying? How do you explain to him that you won't be there to graduate college, go to university as you both planned or do any of the things we always discussed together?

"Take your time, honey," Mum says, squeezing my shoulder. "There's no rush."

But there is. A clock is ticking inside me, and I don't know how much time I have left.

I force myself to take another bite of pancake. It sits heavy in my stomach, and I know I won't be able to eat any more. But I've got to try to keep my strength up, right? That's what all the doctors keep saying.

"I think I'm going to college today," I announce suddenly.

Mum and Dad exchange a look. I can tell they're not thrilled with the idea.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sweetie?" Mum asks hesitantly. "Maybe you should rest today. You've been through a lot—" 

"I want to go," I insist. "I want to feel normal for once. Please?"

They share another glance, having one of those silent parent conversations.

Finally, Dad sighs. "Alright. Suppose you're feeling up to it. But if you start feeling bad, promise you'll come home immediately."

I nod, relief washing over me. "I promise."

I know they're worried. I know they want to protect me. But I can't stand the thought of spending another day cooped up in this house, drowning in sympathy and fear. I need to get out and pretend for a little while that everything's okay.

Even if it's just for a few hours.

Even if it's all a lie.

I trudge back upstairs, my feet feeling heavier with each step. Going to college seemed brilliant a few minutes ago, but now I'm unsure. Still, I've got to try, haven't I? I can't just give up.

I stand in front of my wardrobe in my room, staring blankly at my clothes. Nothing seems right. Everything feels off, like it belongs to a different Beth, one with a future to look forward to.

I shake my head, trying to clear those thoughts away. Focus on the now, I tell myself. Just get dressed.

I grab a pair of jeans and tug them on. They used to fit perfectly, but now they hang loose on my hips. I have to fish around in my drawer for a belt, cinching it tight to keep the jeans from slipping down. This is another reminder of how much weight I've lost. The doctors say it's normal, but it doesn't feel normal. Nothing does anymore.

I pull on a white crop top, then hesitate. My stomach is exposed, and I can see my ribs more clearly than I'd like. Shivering, I grab a zip-up hoodie and throw it over the top. There. That's better.

I turn to face the mirror, and for a moment, I don't recognise the girl staring back at me. She looks... tired. Scared. Sick.

But beneath all that, I can still see the traces of the old Beth. Brown hair, hanging limp around my shoulders. Brown eyes, a bit duller than they used to be, but still the same. My slightly upturned nose is the one I used to hate but now cling to because it's so like my dad's. I've always looked like him; everyone says so.

I brush through my hair, wincing as it catches on tangles. I should have brushed it before bed, but I was too exhausted last night. I'm too caught up in my thoughts.

There's a soft knock at the door, startling me.

"Come in," I call, setting down the brush.

Mum pokes her head in, a hesitant smile on her face. "Almost ready, love?"

I nod, tugging at the hem of my hoodie. "Yeah, I think so."

She comes into my room, her eyes scanning over me. I can see the worry there, the fear she's trying so hard to hide. It makes my chest ache.

"Your hair's all tangled," she says softly. "Want me to plait it for you? Like I used to when you were little?"

The offer catches me off guard. It's been years since Mum plaited my hair—not since...

"Like at your cousins wedding?" I ask, surprised I even remember. "When I was the flower girl?"

Mum's smile grows warmer. "That's right. You had that beautiful braided flower crown. You loved it so much you didn't want to take it out for days."

I laugh, and the sound feels strange in my throat. "God, I'd forgotten about that."

"So, what do you say?" Mum asks, holding up a hair tie. "For old times' sake?"

I hesitate for a moment, then nod. "Yeah, okay. That'd be nice."

I sat down on the edge of my bed, and Mum settled behind me. Her fingers were gentle as they worked through my hair, smoothing out the tangles.

"Remember how you used to squirm when I did this?" she says, chuckling. "You could never sit still."

"Well, that's because getting tangles out hurt a lot back then," I say, smiling. "You'd always tell me if I didn't stop wiggling, you'd give me a Mohawk."

Mum laughs, the sound a bit watery. "That's right. It never failed to get you to behave."

We're quiet for a moment, and the only sound is the soft swish of hair being braided. It's soothing, in a way. Familiar. I close my eyes, letting myself get lost in the rhythm of it.

"Do you remember," Mum says softly, breaking the silence, "the time I tried to teach you how to braid your own hair?"

I groan, but I'm smiling. "God, how could I forget? I was awful at it."

"You weren't awful," Mum protests, but I can hear the amusement in her voice. "You were... enthusiastic."

"Mum, I ended up with a knot so big we almost had to cut it out," I reminded her, laughing. "I cried for hours."

"Yes, well,"  she says, her fingers never pausing. "Practice makes perfect. And look at you now—you can do a French braid better than I can."

I snort. "Yeah, seems pointless now."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. The atmosphere in the room shifts, the playful nostalgia evaporating like mist in the sun. Mum's hands falter for just a moment before resuming their steady rhythm.

"Mum?" I say softly, needing to fill the sudden, heavy silence.

"Hmm?"

I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. "I'm scared."

Her hands were still momentarily, and then they resumed their work. "I know, sweetheart," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am, too."

"What if... what if I can't do this?" The worlds tumble out before I can stop them. "What if I'm not strong enough?"

Mum doesn't answer right away. Instead, she keeps braiding, her fingers moving with practised ease. It's as if she's trying to find the right words.

"Do you remember," she says, "the summer you decided you would learn to ride a bike without stabilisers?"

I frown, confused by the change of subject. "Kind of. I was what, five?"

"Six," Mum corrects. "You'd just turned six and decided that big girls didn't need stabilisers anymore."

I feel a smile tugging at my lips. "That sounds like me."

"Oh, it was very you," Mum agrees, a hint of laughter in her voice. "You were so determined. Your dad and I tried to talk you into keeping them on longer, but you wouldn't hear of it."

"What happened?" I ask, even though I know where this is going.

"Well," Mum says, "we took the stabilisers off, and you hopped right on that bike like you'd been riding it for years."

"Let me guess. I fell flat on my face."

She chuckles. "Not quite. You made it about three feet before you toppled over. Scraped your knee."

I wince. "Ouch."

"Ouch indeed," Mum agrees. "You cried, of course. You said you wanted the stabilisers back on. But do you know what you did next?"

I shake my head slightly, careful not to disrupt her braiding.

"You got right back on that bike," Mum says, and I can hear the pride in her voice. "You were still crying, your knee was still bleeding, but you got back on. And you kept getting back on all day long. You fell more times than I could count, but you didn't give up."

She pauses in her braiding, resting her hands on my shoulders. "By the end of the day, you were wobbly, but you were riding. And the look on your face — God, Beth, I've never seen you so proud of yourself."

I'm quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. "So... you're saying I need to get back on the bike?"

Mum resumes braiding, her touch gentle. "I'm saying that you've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. You've always had this... this incredible determination. When you set your mind to something, there's no stopping you."

She ties off the end of the braid and gently turns me to face her. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, but there's a fierceness there, too, one that matches her words.

"Elizabeth Reid," she says firmly, cupping my face. "You are the strongest person I know. You can do this. And you won't have to do it alone. We're all here for you every step of the way."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Mum pulls me into a hug, and for a moment, I believe everything will be okay. I breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume — the same one she's worn for as long as I can remember.

When we pull apart, Mum wipes her eyes and gives me a shaky smile. "Now then," she says, trying to sound cheerful. "Let's have a look at you."

She turns me back towards the mirror, and I must admit, the braid looks nice. It makes me look more put together, less like I'm falling apart. I reach up, gently touching the intricate plait.

"It's beautiful," I say softly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, love," she replies. "And thank you for letting me do this. It means a lot to me."

I turn back to her, suddenly overwhelmed by how much I love her and how much I'm going to miss her. "I love you, Mum," I say, my voice cracking. "So much."

"Oh, sweetheart," she pulls me into another hug. "I love you too—more than you could ever know."

We stand there for a long moment, holding each other tight. I try to memorise this — the feel of her arms around me, the sound of her heartbeat, the way she smells like home, safety, and love.

Finally, reluctantly, we pull apart. Mum cups my face in her hands again, her thumbs gently wiping away tears I hadn't even realised I'd shed.

"Beautiful," she says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "My beautiful, brave girl."

I lean into her touch for a moment. Then I take a deep breath and stand up straighter.

"I should get going," I say, grabbing my bag from the floor. "Don't want to be late."

Mum nods, following me out of the room and down the stairs. Dad's waiting by the front door, car keys in hand.

"Ready to go, kiddo?" he asks, sounding casual.

I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm ready."

We say our goodbyes — hugs that last too long, I-love-yous that sound too desperate. Then, before I can change my mind, I step out the front door.

The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe this is just another ordinary day—that I'm just a regular girl heading off to college with her whole life ahead of her.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever comes next. One day at a time, I tell myself. That's all I can do.

One day at a time.