Today, the sun rose just like it always does. That’s the strange thing… how normal everything looks when your world is quietly unraveling. My tea still tastes like mint, the neighbor’s dog still barks too much, and the light still catches the corner of my room in that golden hue.

But, I know what the scans said. And I know what the doctor meant when her voice got soft and careful, like she was handing me something delicate instead of the truth.

I’ve stopped asking how much time. Time feels different now, as it’s not measured in months or weeks, but in breakfasts with my brother, or the smell of rain, or the laugh I got out of my nurse yesterday.

People keep telling me I’m very brave. I don’t feel brave. I feel tired sometimes, yes. Scared, definitely. But also oddly…grateful? Every little moment feels heavier, brighter, like I’m seeing the world through a magnifying glass. The softness of my sheets. The way my nurse hums when she thinks I’m asleep. How much it means when someone holds your hand without saying a word.

If I don’t wake up tomorrow, I hope someone reads this and knows I wasn’t afraid of dying, just of leaving all this love behind.

But tonight, I’m still here. I think I’ll light a candle and listen to my favorite song one more time without a scan or diagnostic.