My dad slept through most of the following day while I fiddled around the apartment more, hanging a few framed photos of our family on the blank walls. I didn't want to leave him alone, putting in a grocery order to be delivered and checking in on him every half hour to see if he was still asleep or needed anything.

After putting the groceries away and organizing the refrigerator to my liking I created a meal plan. I could already tell that my dad's appetite would be impacted by treatment, breaking things down so that he would always have small meals and snacks available.

I browsed the web for nearby businesses, excited to see that there was a used bookstore and coffee shop within walking distance. Rochester had more to offer than I was expecting, especially in opportunities to be out in nature. I idealized days where my dad would be feeling more upbeat so that we could walk along a trail with a breathtaking view, interrupted by the sound of him heaving from his bedroom.

He never called out for me but I was there anyway, rubbing on his back as he puked into the small bin I placed by his bed. I held onto the plastic edge, noticing that in transition he'd vomited some on the bed and floor.

"I'm sorry." He muttered when he was finished, a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead and mouth still parted as he spit into the liquid.

"Don't be, just let me take care of it." I insisted gently, tugging a couple of tissues from the box on his nightstand to wipe at the corners of his mouth. "Can you get to the bathroom?"

He looked like he was trying to muster up the strength to move, brows pressed together as if he could will himself to be ready.

"Lets wait a few minutes." I suggested. I stood from my kneeling position in front of him, taking a seat on the unsoiled spot on the bed beside him.

When his breathing was slower, the prominent nausea he felt dulling slightly, I helped him stand. We walked slowly to the bathroom next door and he took a seat on the toilet, resting his head in his hands. With a washcloth doused in cool water I wiped off his face and neck, pressing the fabric into his temples so that he felt the cold. He exhaled with relief, taking some time for a quick wash up while I gathered fresh clothes, medicine, and water.

I set up a place for him to rest in a cushy recliner he kept in the living room, stripping the bedsheets to wash and taking a seat on the couch when he complained that my constant movement made him feel dizzy.

"There's a bookstore." He spoke weakly, lifting a finger to point behind him, indicating that it was on the opposite end of the street.

"I saw it when I was looking up businesses in the area." I smiled.

He returned with a grin, pleased with the affirmation that he still knew me well. "I figured it would be a place you like."

We spent the rest of the evening watching ridiculously predictable and equally as wonderful holiday movies. I remembered that my mom would become obsessed with them every year as Christmas approached. Though my dad always grumbled about the endless stream of films with titles like "A Country Christmas" or "A Christmas Love Story," it was evident that he attached a positive memory to them.

He dozed off halfway through the second movie, just when the main character's shallow boyfriend came in to town, creating a rift in her developing connection with the male lead. I giggled when his snoring grew louder, letting the ending play without paying much attention and scrolling on my phone.

I slept through the night, waking closer to the next afternoon still on the couch and with a small pillow tucked behind my head. Music played low from the small kitchen, the same classical sounds that my dad always listened to. He stood by the counter with a spread of ingredients in front of him that I recognized immediately, turkey, spring mix, havarti, avocado, red onion and chipotle mayo that would make up my favorite sandwich.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?" I asked as I joined him, leaning against the counter while he sliced into a loaf of bread.

"I figured you could use the rest. You haven't slept much since you got here." He replied as he started to layer toppings.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on his assembly. He built the sandwich with an automation that came from years of serving it on the lunch menu at his restaurant and the entire summer that I requested it daily.

"How are you feeling today?" I eyed him, his demeanor starkly different than the day before.

"Better, but my energy is still low so I'll take it easy." He responded. I was glad that I didn't have to tell him what to do or remind him to stay on top of his own rest.

Since his mood was better I took the opportunity to show him the way I organized his schedule using a digital planner that we could share, deciding that I'd also purchase a calendar to attach to the refrigerator for a physical copy. Though I'd already coaxed some basic information about his diagnosis out of him and the folders of documents I read, there was one thing I didn't have clarity on, a question I was afraid to ask the Internet since I'd surely end up down an anxiety-fueling rabbit hole.

I'd been waiting for a good time to get the answer, putting it off because he was sick and I was busy before realizing that there would never be a good time. Still, I held out until we were finished eating, while gathering our plates and cups to wash.

"So what did the doctor say about your chances of survival?" I questioned before turning on the water, almost wishing that the sound covered his ability to hear the inquiry.

"I feel good about my chances." He dodged a true answer, sighing when I shot him a look of disapproval over my shoulder. "The numbers make it sound scarier than it is."

When I finished with the dishes, I returned to my seat and pulled it so that I sat next to him. "I need to know everything, even the scary parts." I leaned onto his shoulder, letting the apple of my cheek mush into his arm.

I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head before answering, my hand automatically moving into his for comfort as he spoke. "The five year survival rate is around thirty-five percent." His tone was forward, surely coated with the same seriousness from when he was delivered the statistic.

I was sure that my heart dropped to my stomach and I was unable to fight off the cry that I voiced, a break in my throat as I probed him more. "And you feel good about that?" My movements were an instinctual reaction that I was barely aware of, on my feet and pacing as if it pained me to keep still.

"My doctor feels positive about the treatment I'm getting and the medical trial. They've had great results with this combination." He tried to calm me down, standing with his rationale. "Plus, I've got better chances than most of the friends I've made here. Hell, Jin's chances are–"

I didn't give him the opportunity to finish. I couldn't hear the ending of his statement. "I don't care about him. I'm here for you." There was a snap to my tone.

He understood that my anger wasn't toward him, that sometimes it was easier to be mad than to face the devastation. There was a pained look behind his eyes that wasn't for himself but for me, for the brokenness that had taken over.

"Sellie, you get to be upset," he started, holding on to me by the arms, "but I need you to have hope after this. I don't know if it's just what everyone says but apparently it's a factor in surviving this thing too. Plus, I already decided I'm surviving it so I will." He nodded as if his proclamation made it true.

As right as he was, it felt like an impossibility at that moment. So I did as he said, leaving hope for after and allowing myself to sit in the havoc of pain I felt. He stayed with me through it, hugging me and letting me cry into his shirt with every wave of hurt.

I was glad to see his symptoms improve more over the weekend, giving us the chance to get out of the house for a day. We stuck to something light, walking to the bookstore he mentioned and having lunch at the restaurant next door. Though I ordered snacks along with my grocery delivery in the middle of the week, he insisted that we stop to pick up a few of Seokjin's favorites, making sure that I wrote them down to remember for next time.

In the two coming days that he had chemotherapy appointments I got used to the sheer amount of items I'd be lugging back and forth. I easily filled bags with food, blankets, books and magazines so that we were both as comfortable as possible. Really, it felt like it was the three of us already, Seokjin a factor in every part of my dad's planning. I did my best to ignore him by entrancing myself with reading and disregarding the urge to laugh or roll my eyes at the jokes he was constantly equipped with.

It wasn't until the end of the week that my dad asked about my next soulmate. I'd been on the phone with Faye for an hour and she asked to speak to him before we hung up, a bright smile across his lips when he finished the call.

"Faye says you're being secretive about your last soulmate." He chuckled, nodding in agreement with an added observation. "I didn't know you met him."

I didn't reply immediately, hyperfocused on folding the pair of joggers I pulled from the basket of clothes in front of me. My dad had completely stopped folding, narrowing his eyes with inquisition.

"Is it that waiter from our lunch spot? He's been trying to get your attention." He tilted his head in wonder.

"It's not him." I replied. "I'm here to help and spend time with you. I don't have time for a soulmate."

His lips pursed with disdain. "Don't do that, use me as an excuse or reason."

My eyes remained on the clothes that I clutched tighter than necessary with the tension of our conversation. "You're not the only reason. I just can't be with him dad." I was assertive in my answer.

"Don't tell me this one is basically married too." He smacked his lips jokingly.

His humor didn't land with the pull of emotion that I fought against. "I can't be with him." I uttered again. When he caught on to the hint of torment in my voice he tugged the t-shirt that I'd refolded three times from my hands, forcing me to take pause. He was the first person I said it to and though I knew he would have a greater understanding of my reasoning, it didn't make the admission any easier. "It's Seokjin."

Too much time passed in silence, so much so that the wall broke for a split second, allowing a single tear to fall from my eye for Seokjin. It pooled onto the fabric of a balled piece of clothing at the top of the basket and I picked it up to fold, refusing to let another drop.

"You shouldn't let that get in the way either." He pressed. 

I didn't want to argue with him, meeting his eye again to make my final point. "Dad, I can't. I can't even think about him. I can't fathom–" I stopped myself, turning back to the chore and shaking my head as if it would clear it of him.

My dad reached out for another item, responding with a suggestion that was meant to conclude our discussion. "Well, if these soulmate connections you have are anywhere close to what I felt with mom, you shouldn't let them pass for any reason."