June stared up at the ceiling, not being able to sleep.
His body was tired, but his mind wasn't.
It ran with a thousand thoughts, circulating with one main topic—death.
Who knew that his dizzy spells and headaches actually meant something?
"What the heck," June muttered, standing from his seat and walking to his full-length mirror.
He looked at himself and found that he still looked fine—handsome as hell, even.
"Is this the face of a dying man?" June asked.
Then, he jumped around, banging his chest with his fists like a gorilla.
"Nothing hurts," he continued. "Is it really true?"
Denial.
That was the first stage of grieving.
"Why the heck did I even get sick in the first place? I eat the best out of every member of EVE! I haven't even touched a stick of cigarette or vape ever since I transmigrated to this body!" he exclaimed.
Anger.
