“I have only six months?” I stood alone in the hospital corridor, staring down at the medical reports trembling between my fingers.
The words written across the pages were painfully clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding or false hope: with or without treatment, I had a little more than six months left to live.
The doctor had explained everything carefully.
Treatment could possibly prolong my life and give me a few additional years, but those years would come at a steep price—endless hospital visits, painful procedures, medication, and the constant uncertainty of whether my already fragile body could endure one treatment after another.
There was no guarantee that I would ever truly recover.
Without treatment, however, I could spend the little time I had left in relative peace, allowing my body to run its course without subjecting myself to procedures that would only delay the inevitable while filling my remaining days with pain.
I looked down at the reports again, trying to accept what I had just been told.
Six months.
That was all I had.
My vision blurred as tears gathered in my eyes.
I stared at the pages as though looking at them long enough might somehow change the diagnosis, as though the numbers and medical terminology would rearrange themselves and reveal that the doctor had made a mistake—that everything could still be reversed.
They didn’t.
Around me, the hospital continued moving as though nothing had happened.
Doctors hurried between rooms with files tucked beneath their arms, nurses pushed medical carts through the crowded corridor, and patients sat quietly outside examination rooms waiting for their names to be called.
Life continued with the same ordinary rhythm it had always possessed, completely unaware that mine had just been turned upside down.
A few people glanced in my direction, their expressions softening with sympathy when they noticed the tears in my eyes, while others looked at me with irritation, perhaps wondering why I was standing in the middle of the corridor instead of moving out of everyone’s way.
I lowered my gaze and tightened my grip around the reports.
No one knew.
No one understood that while everyone else was worrying about tomorrow, I had just been told that I might not even have a tomorrow beyond the next few months.
The thought was difficult to comprehend.
There were still so many things I hadn’t done, so many places I had never seen, and so many ordinary moments I had always assumed I would have time for.
What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life when the rest of my life had suddenly become so painfully short?
Eventually, I folded the reports carefully and placed them inside my bag before leaving the hospital.
The moment I stepped into the busy streets outside, I was surrounded by the familiar sounds of everyday life.
People moved from one destination to another, cars passed through the intersections, and shops continued operating as though the world had not just shifted beneath my feet.
Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go, and everyone seemed to have plans for tomorrow.
Some people were laughing with their friends, others were speaking on their phones, while couples walked side by side without the slightest awareness of how precious an ordinary day could become when you were suddenly told there were so few of them left.
I watched them for several moments before finally hailing a taxi.
After giving the driver my home address, I leaned back against the seat and stared through the window as the city passed by.
The afternoon light had already begun to fade, and darkness would soon settle over the streets.
With it came another problem I had almost forgotten.
My father.
He hated it whenever I stayed outside for too long, and returning after dark would only give him another reason to lose his temper.
Under normal circumstances, that thought alone would have been enough to make me anxious, but today, his anger seemed strangely insignificant compared to the diagnosis folded inside my bag.