Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
But the problem with lying in bed too early to sleep, your mind starts wandering, and despite knowing the signs and symptoms of leukemia like the back of my hand, I found myself researching it and looking up everything there was to know about the disease I’ve already beaten.
Maybe I’m just a hypochondriac, convincing myself of something that isn’t really there, but what if I’m right? What if the battles I’ve already won were nothing but a practice run for something bigger?
I’ve already cheated death once; I’m living on borrowed time. Maybe death is finally knocking on my door, demanding it’s time to come home.
Fuck.
My gaze sweeps to the clock. 6:30 a.m.
Mom and Dad will still be sleeping, but if I’m right, they would want me to wake them. Hell, they would be wishing I had mentioned something when I first started feeling off. I just didn’t want to believe it, and I didn’t want to repeat the most terrifying time of my life.
Figuring that Mom and Dad need to be up soon anyway, I get out of bed and pad toward my desk, scooping up the picture of me as a little girl fighting for her life. I hold it to my chest like a security blanket, and with shaky hands, I walk out of my room and down the hall.
I creep past Hazel’s room, not wanting to wake her or have to worry her, especially if this is something else. Perhaps I was right all along, and this is nothing but emotional exhaustion from being apart from the other half of my soul, but I know in my gut that it’s not.
It’s barely ten steps to my parents’ room, but by the time my hand curls into a small fist and gently knocks on their door, the tears are welling in my eyes.
I don’t bother waiting for them to tell me to come in, I just push the door open and slip straight in. Hazel and I aren’t the type to bother them often when they’re in bed, especially so early in the morning, so the second I walk in, Mom pushes up on her elbow, looking at me with furrowed brows.
She watches me for a second, her eyes adjusting to the fresh morning, and as she sees the tears staining my cheeks, she pulls her blankets back, welcoming me in. “Oh, honey,” she says, pulling me into her arms as I snuggle into her bed, still gripping the photo frame. “Don’t cry. Noah will be back soon.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, my whole body now violently shaking as the tears turn into sobs. “It’s . . . It’s not that,” I tell her, pulling out of her arms, needing to sit up for this. “I . . . I have to . . . to tell you something.”
Mom looks up at me as Dad rolls over to face me, looking just as concerned, even more so as they both take note of the photo in my hand. I scramble over Mom, putting myself right between them, and they immediately sit up, sensing that whatever this is needs their undivided attention.
“Honey, what’s going on?” Dad murmurs, gently taking the photo out of my hand as though that could be the reason for my tears and wanting to separate me from it.
“I—” I cut myself off, not having the strength to get the words out as my heart shatters into a thousand broken pieces.
“Sweetheart,” Mom says, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’re starting to worry me. Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
I shake my head, trying to breathe through the painful sobs as I reach for the photo again. “I . . . I think it’s happening again,” I say, finally getting the words out.
Mom glances at Dad, and despite not seeing the look in her eyes, I can picture it clearly, and my panicked sobs grow even louder. “What do you mean?” she questions cautiously, a nervous tone in her kind voice.
“Mom,” I cry, leaning into her, and she wraps her arms around me, holding me closer than ever before. “I think I’m sick again.”
“Oh, honey,” she soothes, her hand rubbing over my hair. “Why do you think that? You’re perfectly healthy. We go for routine tests every year,” she tells me. “If something was wrong, they would have caught it at your last one. Besides, you know that the likelihood of leukemia returning after ten years in remission is slim to none.”
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” Dad questions. “Are you having trouble at school?”
“Every teenager has trouble at school,” I throw back at him, not liking the accusation in his tone. “But I’m not just taking wild guesses at this. I feel it in my gut. I’ve been having—”