The car ride home stretches forever, each second dragging by. It's funny, isn't it? How time can play tricks on you like that. This drive, which usually takes twenty minutes tops, now feels like it's lasting an eternity.

Kind of like my life, I suppose.

Seventeen years that felt like they'd go on forever, and now I can count what's left in months. In weeks. Maybe even days.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world zip by outside. It's a beautiful May afternoon. The sun is shining, casting a golden glow over everything. Trees are in full bloom, and their leaves are vibrant green. People are out and about, walking dogs, pushing prams, laughing with friends.

How is it possible that the world can look so beautiful when mine has just fallen apart?

Why is everything carrying on as usual when nothing will ever be normal for me again?

The contrast is almost painful. Out there, life is continuing. People are making plans, dreaming of the future, living. And here I am, in this car, with a death sentence hanging over my head.

I can hear Mum sniffling in the front seat, trying to stifle her sobs. Dad's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. His voice is rough when he speaks, like he's fighting back tears.

"We'll get a second opinion," he says, breaking the heavy silence. "There has to be something else we can do."

Mum lets out a choked sound that might be agreement or despair. I can't tell anymore.

"We'll re-mortgage the house if we have to," Dad continues. "We'll look into experimental treatments, clinical trials, anything."

"John," Mum says softly. "You heard what Dr. Patel said. It's... it's too advanced."

"I don't care what she said!" Dad's voice rises, anger and fear mixing. "She's seventeen, for God's sake. There has to be something."

I want to tell them to stop that it's okay. That we don't need to fight this. But the words stick in my throat. Because it's not okay, none of this is okay.

So, instead, I stay silent, my breath fogging up a small patch on the window. I draw a little heart in the condensation with my finger, then quickly wipe it away. It's stupid and childish. What's the point of hearts when mine will stop beating soon?

We pass by my old primary school, and a memory hits me. Me, aged seven, falling off the monkey bars and breaking my arm. I'd been so scared, so sure that the pain would last forever. Mum held me close in the car on the way to A&E, promising me everything would be alright.

She can't promise that now, can she?

The car falls silent again, the only sound the soft hiccupping of Mum's sobs and the steady hum of the engine. It feels like a funeral procession. Maybe it is. Perhaps I'm already dead, and this is what comes after.

We stop at a red light, and I watch a group of teenagers around my age cross the road. They're laughing, shoving each other playfully, without a care in the world. One of them catches my eyes and smiles. I try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace.

Will they remember me, I wonder? When I'm gone? Will I be that girl they went to school with who died young? A cautionary tale? Or will I... fade away, forgotten?

The light turns green, and we move on. I noticed Dad taking a wrong turn, heading away from our house.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

Dad clears his throat. "I thought... maybe we could go for ice cream. Like we used to when you were little?"

The lump in my throat grows bigger. Ice cream. It's such a normal, everyday thing. Something families do on sunny afternoons. Except we're not a normal family anymore, are we? We're a family that has a daughter with an expiration date.

"Okay," I say because what else can I say? No, Dad, I don't want ice cream because I'm dying, and it seems pointless now.

We pull into the car park of the ice cream shop we've been going to since I was a kid. It looks exactly the same—the cheery blue and white striped awning and the colourful chalkboard announcing the flavour of the day.

"What do you want, Beth?" Mum asks, turning to look at me. Her eyes are red and puffy, her makeup a mess. "Your usual?"

My usual: mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone with extra sprinkles. Will this be the last time I ever have it?

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Dad gets out to order, leaving Mum and me in the car. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.

"Beth," Mum starts, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, love. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Mum," I say, the words coming out automatically.

"We're going to fight this," she says, turning fully in her seat to look at me. "You hear me? We're going to fight this with everything we've got."

I nod again, feeling tears prick at my eyes for the first time since we left the doctors. "Okay, Mum," I whisper.

She reaches back and squeezes my hand, and I let myself believe her for a moment. Let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, we can fight this. That this isn't the end.

But then Dad returns with the ice cream, and reality crashes back in. No matter how much we fight or hope, the truth is still there, cold and hard as the ice cream in my hand.

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

And I'm running out of time.

╰────»»❀❀❀««────╯

We finish our ice creams in silence, the sweetness of the mint chocolate chip tasting like ash in my mouth. How can something I've loved for so long suddenly feel so meaningless? Is this what dying does? Sucks the joy out of everything?

As we pull out of the car park, I catch sight of my reflection in the side mirror. I look the same. Pale skin, freckles across my nose, and brown eyes, which Dad always says are warm like hot chocolate on a cold day. How can I look so normal when everything around me is breaking apart?

"We should head home," Dad says, breaking the silence. "Mrs. Jenkins is watching Meri."

Meri. My little sister. Six years old and full of life. How are we going to tell her? How do you explain to a six-year-old that her big sister is dying?

The thought of Meri makes my chest tight. She's too young for this. Too young to understand, too young to lose a sister. Will she even remember me when she's older? Or will I just be a vague memory, a girl in photographs who she can't quite place?

The drive home feels both impossibly long and far too short. I watch the familiar streets roll by, wondering how many more times I'll see them. Will I be too sick to go out soon? Will there come a day when I look out the window and realise it's the last time I'll ever see the sky?

I still haven't cried. It's strange, really. Shouldn't I be a mess?

But instead, I still feel numb. Like, I'm watching all of this happen to someone else.

We pull into our driveway, and I see Mrs. Jenkins, our kind next-door neighbour, peek out from behind the curtains. A moment later, she's coming out the front door, Meri's little hand in hers.

"There you are!" Mrs. Jenkins calls out cheerfully as we get out of the car. "Everything alright at the doctor's?"

I freeze, not knowing what to say. How do you answer that when your whole world has just been turned upside down?

Mum saves me, plastering on a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Fine, thanks. Just a routine check-up. Thanks so much for watching Meredith."

Mrs Jenkins beams, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. "Oh, it was no trouble at all. She's such a little angel."

Meri, spotting me, breaks free from Mrs Jenkins and races towards me. "Beth! Beth! You're home!"

I kneel and open my arms, catching her as she barrels into me. Her familiar weight, the smell of her strawberry shampoo, the way she clings to me like I'm her favourite person in the world — it all hits me at once, and I can't breathe for a moment.

"Hey, squirt," I manage to say, ruffling her blonde hair, so different from my brown locks. "Did you have fun?"

Meri nods enthusiastically, her blue eyes sparkling like Mum's as she launches into a detailed description of their afternoon. I listen, trying to focus on her words, not the ticking clock in my head. How many more times will I get to hear her chatter like this? How many more hugs do we have left?

Mrs. Jenkins says her goodbyes, promising to bring over some casserole later in the week. If only she knew. Soon enough, she will. Soon enough, everyone will know.

As Mum hurries Meri inside, Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me before I can follow.

"Beth," he says softly, his eyes — brown like mine — serious. "There's something I need to tell you."

I brace myself, wondering what else could go wrong today.

Dad takes a deep breath. "When you were just a baby, I... I had cancer, too."

I stare at him, shocked. This is the first I've heard of this. "What?"

He nods, a sad smile on his face. "Testicular cancer. They caught it early, but it was still scary as hell. You were only a few months old."

"But... you're okay now, right?" I ask, suddenly terrified that Mum and Meri might lose both of us.

"I'm fine," he assures me quickly. "I beat it. Kicked cancer's arse when you were about three. I've been clear ever since."

I nod, not sure what to say. Why is he telling me this now?

"The point is," Dad continues, "I fought it and won. And you're going to do the same, Beth. You hear me? You're going to beat this."

I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But the words of Dr. Patel echo in my head. Stage four. Advanced. Terminal.

"Dad," I start, but he pulls me into a hug, cutting off my words.

"You're strong, Beth," he murmurs into my hair. "Stronger than you know. We're going to fight this together, okay?"

I nod against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave. I should be crying. This is the moment in films where the daughter breaks down in her father's arms. But my eyes stay dry, the tears stubbornly refusing to come.

We break apart, and Dad gives me a watery smile. "Come on," he says, nodding towards the house. "Let's go inside."

As we enter the living room, I see Mum sitting on the couch, Meri curled beside her. Meri's eyes light up when she sees me.

"Beth!" she cries, leaping off the couch and running towards me. "Come see what I drew today!"

I let her grab my hand and pull me to her collection of drawings spread out on the coffee table. They are bright, happy pictures of our family, flowers, rainbows, and a future that suddenly seems too far out of reach.

As I sit beside Meri, listening to her excitedly explain each drawing, I catch Mum's eye over her head. The pain and fear I see there is almost unbearable. How are we going to tell Meri? How do we shatter her innocent world with the news that her big sister is dying?

"Meredith, sweetheart," Mum says softly, "can you sit with us for a moment? We need to talk about something important."

Meri looks up from the floor. "Okay, Mummy," she says, skipping over to the sofa where our parents are sitting. I stand up and sit on the opposite side of the room.

Dad lifts her onto his lap, and I can see him swallow hard, fighting back tears. "Meri," he begins, his voice gentle, "do you remember when Grandpa went to heaven last year?"

She nods. "He became an angel, right?"

"That's right, love," Mum says. "Sometimes, when people are very sick, God decides he needs them to be angels in heaven."

I watch as understanding slowly dawns on Meri's face. Her little brow furrows, and she looks from Mum to Dad to me. "Is someone sick?" she asks in a small voice.

Dad hugs her closer. "Yes, sweetheart. Beth is... Beth is very sick."

Meri's eyes snap to mine, wide with fear. "But you'll get better, right Beth? Like when I had chicken pox?"

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. How do I explain this to her?

"Meri," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "sometimes people get so sick that the doctors can't make them better. And... and that's what's happening to me."

Her lower lip starts to tremble. "But... but I don't want you to go to heaven. I want you to stay here with me!"

"Oh, sweetheart," Mum says, tears streaming down her face. "We all want Beth to stay. But sometimes God needs extra special angels, and he's chosen Beth."

"No!" Meri cries, her little face crumpling. "It's not fair! I don't want Beth to be an angel; I want her to be my sister!"

This is harder than I thought it would be.

She looks frantically between Mum and Dad. "We can save her, right? We can save her so she doesn't have to go?"

Dad pulls Meri close. "We're going to try our hardest, sweetheart. We're going to fight this with everything we've got."

"Promise?" Meri asks, her tiny voice filled with hope.

But I can see the pain in his eyes, the knowledge that sometimes, no matter how hard you fight, it's not enough. And my heart breaks all over again.

Meri launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck so tight I can barely breathe. I hold her close, feeling her tiny body shake with sobs.

"I'll always be your sister, Meri," I murmur into her hair. "Always. Even if I'm in heaven."

"But I won't be able to see you," she wails. "Or hug you. Or play with you."

Each word feels like a physical blow. I look at Mum and Dad helplessly, but they're both crying too.

"I know it's hard to understand, sweetheart," Dad says. "But Beth will always be watching over you. She'll be your very own guardian angel."

Meri pulls back slightly, her face streaked with tears. "Can I go to heaven too? So Beth won't be alone?"

My heart shatters into a million pieces. "Oh, Meri," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "No, squirt. You need to stay here with Mum and Dad. They need you. And I won't be alone in heaven. I'll have Grandpa there and all the other angels."

"But I need you here," she insists, her little hands gripping my shirt. "Who's going to read me bedtime stories? Who's going to help me with my maths homework? Who's going to scare away the monsters under my bed?"

Each question feels like a knife to my heart. I look at Mum and Dad, silently pleading for help. How do we make this okay?

"Meredith," Mum says gently. "Beth will always be with you, in your heart. And Daddy and I will be here to help you with everything. We'll get through this together as a family."

Meri buries her face in my chest, her tears soaking through my shirt. "I don't want you to go, Beth," she whispers. "Please don't go."

And suddenly, it's too much. The weight of my sister's grief, the pain in my parents' eyes, the enormity of what's happening - it all comes crashing down on me at once.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, gently disentangling myself from Meri's grasp. "I can't... I need a minute."

I stand up, my legs shaking. Mum reaches for me, concern etched on her tear-stained face. "Beth, honey..."

But I can't. I just can't.

"I'm sorry," I say again, then run up the stairs, down the hallway, into my room. I slam the door behind me, leaning against it as if I can keep the reality of my situation at bay.

I stand there for a moment, my breath coming in ragged gasps. And then, finally, the dam breaks.

I slide down the door, my legs giving out beneath me, and the tears come. Great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body. All the emotions I've been holding back since we left the doctor's office come pouring out.

I cry for the future I'll never have. For the dreams I'll never achieve. For the life I'm leaving behind.

I cry for Meri, who's too young to lose her big sister. For Mum and Dad, who should never have to bury their child.

I cry for myself, for the unfairness of it all. Why me? Why now? What did I do to deserve this?

The tears feel endless like they'll never stop. Like I'll drown in my grief. I can hear Mum and Dad calling my name and knocking on the door, but I can't answer. I can't face them. Not now. Not like this.

So I cry. I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen. I cry until no tears are left until I'm empty, hollow, and utterly exhausted.

And as the sobs finally subside, leaving me hiccupping and gasping on my bedroom floor, one thought echoes in my mind.

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

And I'm not ready to die.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​