advanced cancer

The day I found out I had terminal cancer, I dreamt I was the tragically deceased first love in a melodramatic novel. My childhood sweetheart, Ethan, was chattering away, "Hey, Luna, wanna grab some hot wings?"

I chuckled softly, "Let's try something different. How about pizza?"

The female protagonist in my dream couldn't handle spicy food, but to be more like me, after Ethan became her sugar daddy, she ate spicy food every single day. It eventually wrecked her stomach.

Since I wasn't going to live much longer, I didn't want anyone else to suffer because of me.

1.

The steamy pizza joint was practically empty, just Ethan and me. A mountain of cheesy, pepperoni-laden goodness sat between us.

I took a bite, chewing slowly, a small smile playing on my lips. "Pizza is actually better than hot wings. You know, you should always try new things. You might find something even better."

My words were loaded, and Ethan, always perceptive, caught the hint. "Luna," he asked softly, "what's wrong?"

I forced a smile and shook my head. I hadn't told anyone about my diagnosis. What was the point of burdening them when I didn’t have much time left?

My gaze drifted to a girl outside. She was clutching a basket of flowers, her thin jacket doing little against the biting wind. Her small face was pale with cold, and something about her tugged at my heartstrings. What stunned me most was her resemblance to me. We could have been twins.

This must be the protagonist, I thought, remembering the heavily made-up, troubled girl from my dream. It was hard to reconcile that image with the innocent face before me.

I stepped out of the restaurant and approached her with a smile. "You look so much like me! It's like fate. I ordered too much food and don't want to waste it. Come join me, and I'll buy all your flowers."

I gestured towards the warmly lit pizza place, and her eyes widened, a flicker of both shyness and hope within them.

I led her inside and introduced her to Ethan, then started piling her plate with food. She ate with a ravenous hunger that spoke volumes. Afterward, she deftly wove two bracelets from the wildflowers and handed them to me. "Here you go, pretty lady," she said, "for you."

I accepted the bracelets and asked gently, "It's freezing out here. Why are you selling flowers all alone?"

A look of embarrassment washed over her face. "My name's Claire. I got accepted to NYU's business school, but my mom says college is useless for girls and is holding my ID hostage, forcing me to drop out and work. NYU gives scholarships to good students, so I'm selling flowers to try and make the first semester's tuition."

She set down her chopsticks, a worried frown creasing her brow. She'd tried to find a regular job, but no store or factory would hire her without an ID and looking so small and frail. Selling flowers was her last resort.

In my dream, I only remembered Claire as a lost, heavily made-up girl who became Ethan's mistress, suffering endlessly in a c...