Unedited. 

Halfway through, this chapter decided to get really depressing . . . I fixed it though!

Go and check out @AliceWielder, her stories are great!

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Dad drops me off at James' house the next day, just after three thirty. It's a Monday so James is only just home from school. The drive doesn't take as long; dad familiar with the route already.

I still haven't mentioned the kiss to mum or dad. They're already acting overbearing as it is—asking if anything went wrong, if I was okay. I can't exactly blurt out that I had my first kiss—and it was the best moment of my life. Well, that wasn't true. The second time it had been amazing—the first, not so much.

They'll be happy for me, I know that. Mum will probably cry—acting overjoyed enough for the both of us. Then she'll demand details, not letting me stop until she's happy she knows everything. Dad, on the other hand, won't be so easy to convince. If I don't time it right, he'll stampede his way into James' house, ready to go to war for me. That won't end well—for anyone.

"Are you going to get out?"

I glance over at dad, his hands resting on the steering wheel loosely. He's staring at me, the corner of his mouth turning up. Shaking my head, I glance at myself in the car mirror. My hair is thrown in a haphazard bun, strands everywhere, my face is make-up free—and it does nothing to hide how pale I am. I'm not wearing anything special either, just jeans and a random shirt I'd seen in my cupboard. "Should I have put some effort in, dad? I don't look too bad, do I?"

Dad frowns. "Care to tell me why you'd need to put effort in?"

I'm an idiot, I think. He hasn't even asked about James and I—if there even is an us. "No reason, dad."

He continues to stare at me and I know he sees right through the lie. "Try that again, would you?"

Sighing, I glance away. "Fine dad. I may or not be dating someone," I say, the words coming out in a rush.

"Someone?" Dad's voice isn't angry, just carefully controlled. It's worse than his anger.

"James, dad," I mutter, unable to look him in the eye.

"And how did this happen?" he demands.

Uncomfortable, I shrug, playing with the ends of my hair. I watch cars drive by as an excuse to avoid dad's eyes. "Dad, he's expecting me. I should go."

Dad sighs. "I'm not mad at you."

"You'll be mad at him," I mutter, glancing to the house. The front door is open and I know they're waiting for me. "I'm not worried about me."

"You've been stressing about this," dad mutters, clearly concerned. "Your colour is off."

"I'm just pale today, dad," I mutter, knowing the words are a lie. It means I don't have enough fluid in my body and I'll need to go on IV drip. I can only hope it doesn't come to that. The last time I'd gone in because of this reason, I had stayed in the hospital for a month, body too weak to leave. "I feel fine. Honestly."

Dad sighs. "We're seeing your oncologist tomorrow about the lung transplant. I'll ask them about it." He reaches out, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him. There's concern in his glassy eyes, as well as a little fear. "I don't want to let you go in, but I want you to enjoy it, in case you're stuck in hospital again. But if anything happens—even if it's just slight dizziness—, you call me. Straight away. They better drive you to the hospital as well."

"You're stressing, dad. Stop. I'm okay," I say, smiling gently.

"For now. Remember last time? It started out as a headache and then we almost lost you. I'm not even talking about the school incident, because I don't even want to think about it. You know your limits, and I need you to realise when something is about to happen."

I nod. "I promise dad. I'll be okay."

"I know honey. I'm just worried." Dad shakes his head, pulling me into his side. Kissing the top of my head, he says, "And you look beautiful honey. If your boyfriend doesn't see that, then he doesn't deserve you."

The term boyfriend is a giant maybe. "You're being so calm about this."

Dad shakes his head. "Trust me, I want nothing more than to go in there and interrogate your boyfriend. But I'm not going to put your health in danger, just because I don't know if he's good enough for you. As soon as I know you're okay though . . . prepare him sweetheart. I'm not going to stop until I know he deserves you."

"He's great dad. If anything it's the other way round—he deserves someone better than me." Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, I look at the red ultra-violet number. 3:20. "Dad, I have to go inside. I've been sitting her for ten minutes already. James is waiting."

Dad lets me go with a frown. "You'll call?"

I nod with severity. "Yes. I swear. I've got my oxygen machine, I should be fine."

"Go inside. Have some fun. I'll be here at six thirty."

Flashing him a fleeting smile, I open the car door. Kicking it open with my foot, I lift my oxygen machine and put it on the grass below us. "I will. Love you, dad."

"Love you, too. Now go, I have to deal with your brother. He's going to make me listen to him as he explains all the comics you brought him."

I jump down onto the grass, glancing back at dad. "I had to buy him something. At least he likes them—I was worried he'd hate them."

Dad just shakes his head, grinning at me. "Bye, sweetheart."

*

Before I can even reach the front door, James' mum greets me with a smile, as she opens the screen door wide. "Hi. How are you?"

"Good," I say, stepping into the house. Leaving my thongs, I put the on the shoe rack. The front entrance of the house is just as clean as it was yesterday. Compared to my house, it's like a display home. My house always has random things scattered on the floor. The kitchen is the only room that stays clean. In a house with two teenage boys, I expect to see some mess.

Of course, I haven't seen any bedrooms yet. I doubt they're spotless—clothes probably littered around the floor. My room is never clean. There's always a book lying around the room, most days a few of them.

"James is in his room, if you're looking for him. Do you know how to get there?"

I shrug, lifting my oxygen machine onto the tiles. I can't help but wonder how much his mum knows about yesterday. "It shouldn't be too hard."

She laughs, smiling at me. There's sympathy in her gaze and I know she can't disassociate between the cancer and I. "I'll show you the way. Really it's no trouble, I was only wiping down the kitchen."

Nodding wordlessly, I follow her, the tiles cold under my feet. We walk by the lounge room, which unsurprisingly is spotless, and I get a glimpse into the kitchen. On the fridge there's a drawing of what I think is two people. I can't be too sure. Underneath the two stick figures is the word 'James', though the 'J' and 'E' are backwards. Both figures are smiling—one curved line drawn—, and one has a black afro, the other with a blond one.

James' mum follows my line of sight. "James drew that picture in grade one. Jordon is the blond one and he's the one with dark hair. I know how much he hated it on there but I can't remove it. Jordon and James haven't always seen eye to eye. When high school first started, James was alienated because of his disability. Jordon was understandably embarrassed."

I frown. It's a fear I've always had. Rick is going to be embarrassed by me—no one wasn't to be the sister to the dying girl. "But they're so close now."

"Yeah they are. Eventually, Jordon seemed to realise his brother wasn't ever going to change and there was nothing wrong with him. The bullying affected James more than he's ever admitted. He's okay now, though. Jordon's fought for his brother, and while I should disapprove of it, I can't help but be happy about it." She smiles at me, glancing away from the picture. "You make him happy though."

"Thanks, I guess," I mutter, trying not to blush.

She stares at me, before walking to the left where there's a hallway. "I keep that picture there for keeps sake. I'm sure your parents do the same thing."

"Yeah, that do," I mutter, barely paying attention as she points out everything in the hall.

"And this is James' room," she says, waving her hand. The door is ajar and I can hear a chords of a guitar. I don't recognise the song, but it sounds like something that I should know.

"Are you sure this is James'?"

She looks at me oddly, before nodding hurriedly. "Oh. It's the guitar. He plays it all the time. He can explain it better, but though he can't hear it, he knows what he's playing. He doesn't believe me when I tell him he has a talent." She shakes her head with a fond smile. "It's definitely not Jordon's room. He can't play any instruments. It's painful to listen to."

I nod, though I'm barely hearing a thing she's saying. Instead I'm listening to the guitar. It sounds beautiful, a melodic hum.

"Okay, I'll leave you to it."

Then she's gone.

Slowly, I open the door a little, standing unsurely in the doorway. He seems so engrossed with his guitar that I'll doubt he will notice me. He can't hear me anyway. Do I knock? Walk over and scare him?

Just as I'm about to step further into the room, James looks up. His eyes go wide before the expression disappears, and then he's grinning at me. He's wearing a jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves folded up. Laying the guitar on his bed, he reaches beside him where there's a book sitting next to him.

While he writes, I glance around his room. It's not messy, just a few random clothes strewn in the corner of his room. His bed takes up the centre of the room, a TV in the corner of the room. From what I can see there's an Xbox connected to it. Games are stacked next to it, and the stack is at least half of me. There's no half-naked women on his wall, just nameless sports players which mean nothing to me. The room is wasn't I thought a teenage guy's room would be.

He whistles and I glance over. You didn't even knock. How rude of you.

I roll my eyes, walking closer. I don't have any paper with me so I sit on the edge of his bed and he hands it to me. Hey to you to. How was school?

He reads the words, glaring at me, though there's no malice in the look at all. It sucked. I have two assignments to do. Be glad you don't go anymore.

I glance at him, wishing I was in his place. I genuinely miss school—even including all the assignments and homework. James moves back, until he's leaning against the headboard. I'm sorry, I write. I could help you with them.

James raises an eyebrow, grasping the paper when I hand it to him. I cross my legs, reaching out to grab the guitar. I can't play a single song but I lay it over my crossed legs sideways. James watches me, smiling softly.

He lays the paper in between us and I have to read everything to find where he's written. The words are everywhere, some sideways, and others upside down. Working out whose writing is whose isn't hard. I'm not going to make you do my assignments. My guitar is a free for all though, so have at it.

Laughing quietly, I glance back. My oxygen machine is still in the doorway. Conscious of dad's warning, I place the guitar on the bed and walk to the doorway. As I wheel it back with me, James watches with a frown.

Situating it so it's leaning against the bed, I cross my legs again, as I pick up the guitar. My attempt at strumming the chords gracefully like James fails epically. It sounds out of tune and I'm just glad James can't hear it. The second attempt isn't much better—though it isn't as painful to listen to.

Rolling my eyes, I continue to strum, though it still sounds awful.

James slides something on top of the guitar and I glance down. I can't even hear you and I know it sounds awful. Need some help? he's written, on a small slip of paper.

Placing the guitar off to the side, I glare at him. My hand scribbles on the paper and I can only hope the words are legible. How can you do it so well? It's unfair.

Smirking, he grabs the guitar, playing seamlessly the moment he touches the strings. He seems peaceful as he strums the strings, eyes closed.

I can't help but glance around, a little uncomfortable. I'm sitting in his room, relaxing as if it's normal to be this close with him already. One kiss and I'm acting like we've been together forever. My skin starts to crawl. It's anxiety I haven't experienced in forever.

Realisation sets in. Since the diagnosis I've told myself a lot of things. To never let depression get the better of me. To never let the cancer win. But, most of all, I've always said that I'd never get close to anyone—never have them depend on me in the slightest.

I've done the exact opposite of that. I know that I'm emotionally drawn to him. It's not love but it's something. Is it the same for him? I honestly have no idea. Self–hatred burns. I'm only going to hurt him.

Catherine's words echo in my mind. She's right—I don't have months to spend debating what James and I are. I have to make the choice now—and ignore how painful it is.

Willing myself not to cry, I stare at James. He's so relaxed, grinning softly, as he strums the strings. I force myself to reach for the paper, my hand shaking a mile a minute.

I'm sorry. I can't do this, I write. Then I place it in front of him, standing.

James doesn't notice the paper at first, and I wait by the bed nervously. He'll hate me for doing this, I know it. I want nothing more to just walk out, but I can't. He deserves to know why I'm walking out.

As an excuse, I stare at a poster on his wall. It's a guy, in a red jersey, the word 'Beckham' written underneath in bold writing.

Something slips into my hand and I glance down. Opening the paper I read the words, though I don't want to. James frowns at me the whole time, leaning forward on his palms. Can't do what? I'm not pressuring you into anything.

I shake my head, turning the paper over. My words are rushed. This. I can't do this—us. If there even is an 'us'.

James reads the words. Then just stares at me, frowning. Gone is anything relaxing from his demeanour; now he's tense. Sitting up straighter, he narrows his eyes.

Finally he rips some paper out of the book next to him, scrawling quickly.

I take it from his when he hands it over, shifting nervously. He doesn't seem angry . . . just annoyed. And resigned. What's wrong? You look pale. If you don't want to be here, tell me. I can accept it.

Glancing down at my shaking hands, I force myself to sit down, for nothing but the fact that I'm conscious of dad's warning. I don't want to risk my health.

It's not you. I refuse to tack on, it's me. Then I hand it to him, running my hand along my knee.

He reads the words with a frown. Then he stares at me like I've lost my mind. Who is it, then?

Shaking my head, I wipe away a stray tear. I want to stay here but I know I can't. I have to do this before I completely lose my nerve. I'm dying, I write, before shoving it back to him.

James doesn't write anything down this time—he just raises an eyebrow, mouthing the words, I'm deaf.

I don't smile at him, finding nothing funny in the statement. I scribble quickly. I'm dying, James. DYING. In one week I may not even be here. I've always told myself that I wouldn't get close to anyone. I don't even talk to my best friend anymore. I don't need any more collateral damage.

James stares at me, eyes narrowed. There's no anger in the expression, just sadness. You're a person, you know that? You shouldn't alienate people just because you don't want to hurt them. I've survived a lot, you don't have to protect me.

As soon as I read the words, I scrunch up the paper angrily. He's right, about it all. It's what I want to tell myself, a way of convincing myself its right to get close to people. But, in the end, they'll suffer a lot longer than I have to. I can't get attached to you. I've accepted I'm dying and I'm okay with that. I shake my head—that isn't entirely true, though I like to think it is. Aware of James watching me, I go back to writing. I'm already leaving my family behind. I can't—not on my conscious—leave you behind too. No one said this has to be serious and I probably won't fall in love with you, but I just . . . can't.

I watch James read the words and how his expression changes—flickering from anger, to sadness, to anger again. Finally, just stares face emotionless. I don't take it as a good sign.

First up. He turns the paper towards him, scrawling quickly before turning it back around so I can see. I'm just going to put it clear the air—will you be my girlfriend?

I shake my head in frustration. Tearing a page out of his notebook. There's at least three pens scattered on his bed and I grab a random one. The point is to walk out before I hurt you.

James shrugs. The point is, I just asked you out. And you don't want to say yes because of the cancer. I can accept rejection, but only if it's because you're completely against the idea of being my girlfriend. I get why you want to say no, but cancer doesn't rob you of the things you want.

Sighing, I shake my head, collapsing on the bed. This is exhausting—mostly because he's right. Deep down I want to say yes, I want to be his girlfriend. But I can't. It's not right. For once I'm grateful for the silence—saying the words would be a lot harder. You're not making this easier. I might as well just walk out.

James smiles tightly. This is a major blow to my ego, you know. I need you to tell me honestly—if you didn't have cancer what would you say?

Yes, I write, without hesitation. I'd say yes.

James nods, moving to a new page. Thought so. And there's your answer.

I shake my head. We were being hypothetical. Guess what? I do have cancer. And I'm dying.

So what? James mouths.

So . . . everything, I think. It makes all the difference. There's so much I haven't been able to because of the diagnosis. I can't walk without relying on a fake oxygen substitute. I have to take medication every day. I can't plan my future because I'm not going to have one—it'll just be a grave.

Shaking away the depressing thoughts, I glance at James whose still waiting for an answer. I turn the page I have over and put pen to paper. My parents might be burying my body next week, or tomorrow. Pretending I say yes, it won't end well. I'll get close to you. I won't have time to prepare myself if worse comes to worse—which I will. In the blink of an eye, I can disappear from the world. I can't do that to you.

Arms come around me and I'm too emotionally exhausted. Letting James pull me closer, I try to ignore the tears that are falling. This is just another reason—I have too much baggage, too many problems.

Trying to keep the tears at bay is a futile effort. They've been building for months—ever since I got the news that I only had a year to live. All my fears, everything that I'm scared of leaving behind . . . it's like a tidal wave.

Even as I sob—ugly, painful sounds—James just holds me. There's no murmured reassurances, just the sound of my tears echoing around the room.

Sometime later, I have to go toilet. I don't want to break up the moment but I have to go. The tears have tampered off and I feel . . . lighter, somehow.

Pulling back, I glance awkwardly around the room. The fact that I'm on James' lap hadn't bothered me during my melt-down. Now it is. James' arms are still wrapped around my waist holding me close. I don't dare lift my face from where it's pressed into his shoulder, afraid to make eye contact with him.

No doubt he'll tell me to get out and leave his house. I have to be the only girl in existence to have an emotional breakdown, after being asked out—and reject the guy that asked.

Trying to worm my way out of his lap, I notice, embarrassingly, my legs are wrapped around his hips. My face burns as mortification sets in. I'm laying myself all over him.

Thankfully, James seems to realise and his arms loosen until he's leaning back on his hands. Grateful for the chance, I move backward, awkwardly sprawling my body on the bed in my haste. The side of the bed is a lot closer than I guessed and I almost topple off, onto the floor. My feet he floor is something I welcome, and, avoiding looking at James, I run from the room.

The toilet isn't hard to find and I walk in quickly, locking the door behind me. I do my business as quick as I can, before walking to the sink in the corner of the white, pristine room. The room is huge, a bath along the back wall, with a shower in the closest corner, and a toilet between the two of them.

My reflection in the mirror is blushing like mad, eyes red and puffy. Shaking my head, I splash some water onto my face. When I glance at myself again I still look like I've just broken down in tears. I'm still red. I'm still pale.

How? I think, staring at my reflection. I'm dying, I cry over everything and I run from every awkward situation. He can do so much better. The girls I'd gone to school with . . . they're all beautiful. None of them have been diagnosed with cancer, none of them are dying. They don't break down because they've been asked out.

Sighing, I turn the hot water off. Standing here, wallowing self-pity won't help anything. If he's going to tell me to get out—which he is going to—, I'm only dragging it out.

The walk back to his room seems to take forever and I open the door a little. James is sitting on his bed, strumming the guitar. The sense of déjà vu makes me uneasy.

How has it gone so wrong, so fast? The day before yesterday was a day of firsts. My first time in the city. My first kiss. So many good things . . .

I was right.

Catherine said I shouldn't be so pessimistic and stop believing that something bad was going to happen. She was wrong though and I was right. My luck has run out. Everything good that was happening, is no longer happening.

Two days after my first kiss, the guy that kissed me is going to make me leave his house.

Knowing that it'll be over if I just walk in, I open the door fully, stepping into the room. James glances up at me.

Wordlessly, he points next to. Hesitantly, I take the steps forward until I see what he's pointing at. It's a piece of paper, words written down. With shaking hands I pick it up and read the words.

Wasn't sure if you'd be back or not ;) Okay, not funny. Anyway, what happens now is up to you. We can pass the next two hours two way. We can sit here; you talk and I listen (you get what I mean) about what just happened and why you freaked out. Or I can put in one of my Xbox games and we can play—you choose the game. You can just watch me play it if you want. Or you can go home (by your choice, not because you feel like you have to) . . . . That was more than three options. Whatever.

James stares at me, giving nothing away. I can only gape at him, shocked that he's not going to make me leave.

Unwanted tears start to fall. He doesn't care about any of it. Yes, I mouth, smiling at him. He's right—I deserve some happiness. The cancer isn't going to stop me from dating someone.

James frowns. What?

I'll be your girlfriend, I mouth.

James just grins broadly in response, like someone has just granted a wish. I can't help but feel flattered.

Blushing, I walk to where his collection of Xbox games sit, grabbing Mario Kart from the stack. James raises his eyebrow at the choice but says nothing, as he gets up to put the game in.

As we get comfortable on the bed, his leaning against the headboard, me sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, I can't help but grin.

Maybe my luck hasn't run out, after all.