He is a cancer patient. So of course he, out of all people should be prepared for death. He should see it coming.

He has been in this ward for 178 days and 9 hours. He has been aware of his condition all along and every little change that occurs in his body—the expiry date too, roughly.

His friends and family come visit him often, they used to bring flowers and fruits and all sorts of things that he won't need but now, the visits are less often. The gap between those visits increasing. Nonetheless, whoever comes, they're sure to tell him to fight, to be positive, optimistic and keep his will to survive alive. That he'd somehow beat those cancer cells just because he thinks he can. He puts on a smile and tells them all the things they want to hear. The responses they want from him just so they can go home satisfied. He laughs at their jokes and tries not to scoff when they say they understand the pain he's going through. And on the days when he's too weak, he lies in bed and pretend to be asleep because he can't even muster a smile. They sit by him for a while and go. Each one spending enough time that their self satisfaction allows.

He has had bad days too, when he can't smile or laugh or be sane. When he has all those retorts and comebacks on the tip of his tongue. When he won't even answer the questions of doctors and nurses. When the sunlight from the window to the end lights up the entire room but him.
He is bound to the bed, his body too weak to get up and day after day passes bringing him close to his death. After all, that's what he's supposed to be waiting for lying on that darn bed for as long as he can remember.
He does know the cure to his condition is impossible. He knows he got diagnosed a little too late. He's sure the staff has its eye on the bed he's occupying and when it'll be empty for the next patient to take over. He knows, lying on that bed he's expected to wait for his death, think about it every day and see it coming, right? No.

He's a cancer patient and when death arrived, it arrived suddenly. He was woken up from his sleep and as the doctors started checking up on him, the look on their face told him something was wrong. It was a blur of several machines wheeling in, needles piercing his skin, the beeps getting more rapid. The doctors shouting orders to each other. His vision and memory turning hazy.

In that moment, there were no flashbacks, no loved one beside him, but just one thought, one sentence ruling out all the other thoughts there could be.
I don't want to die. I'm not prepared. Not yet. Please.

(Excerpt from The Words Never Written.)