The waiting room smelled like bleach and despair, a place where hope came to die a slow, sterile death. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they, too, were fed up with everything. She sat there, mind-numbingly bored, flipping through a six-month-old magazine about gardening. As if she'd ever garden. The last plant she owned had withered from sheer neglect, and now she was wilting too, but from a much crueler disease.
The door creaked open, and Dr. Nanda appeared, his expression so serious you'd think someone had just told him they ran out of coffee. He gestured for her to come in, and she obliged, already bracing herself for the inevitable.
"We've got the results," he said, taking a seat and looking over his glasses in that way doctors do when they're about to tell you something you'd rather not hear. "It's... rare."
She blinked. "Rare? Like, in a cool 'collector's item' kind of way or...?"
"No," he said flatly, clearly not in the mood for humor. "Rare as in... well, we don't know exactly how to treat it. There aren't many documented cases."
"Great. I get the rare cancer. Awesome." She let out a breathy laugh, the kind you make when you're absolutely about to lose your mind but trying to hold it together for just a few more minutes.
Dr. Nanda, bless him, tried to look compassionate, but it was more of a grimace. "We'll do everything we can, but..."
But, but, but. The worst three-letter word in the universe. The conversation dissolved into medical jargon—terms like "prognosis," "experimental treatment," and "limited options." All she could focus on was the fact that her life had somehow gone from barely holding it together to, well, this.
When the word "terminal" finally dropped into the conversation, it landed with a thud. That was it. The death sentence. No appeal, no extensions, no "get out of jail free" card. Just... time running out.
She left the office in a haze, the world around her seeming more ridiculous than ever. A bus honked at a jaywalker, someone yelled into their phone about avocado toast, and life went on. Her life, however, was spiraling into chaos.
And if her diagnosis wasn't enough of a cosmic middle finger, there was her family. Her brother—God bless his dumb, dead soul—had gotten himself killed in a car crash a few years back, leaving their parents in shambles. And now, here she was, about to make it worse. She could already picture her father's face, a permanent frown etched into his features like it had been carved by a very sad sculptor. Her mother, who hadn't stopped crying since her brother's accident, would probably just float away in a puddle of tears.
Oh, and let's not forget her sister. The walking disaster who couldn't manage to keep a job or a relationship or, apparently, sobriety. Her sister had enough problems to fill a soap opera season. Now she was going to have to deal with her sister whining about how "unfair" life was when, really, she was the one facing death.
And then there was her own body—a complete betrayal. For the last few months, she'd thought her symptoms were just her being overdramatic. Weight loss? Great! But nope. Fatigue? Probably because she hadn't been eating right. But no, that aching feeling in her bones wasn't just because she needed to stretch more; it was because cancer had set up shop and was now kicking her around for fun.
She tried to distract herself with mundane things, but it didn't work. She avoided telling her parents the truth. How could she? They had already buried one child; asking them to do it again was cruel. Maybe she could just quietly slip away without telling anyone. Ha, right.
One more hospital visit. One more round of tests. And then, maybe, she'd go home and break the news. Maybe.
She was sitting in the waiting room again, mindlessly scrolling through her phone, when she noticed him: an old man standing across the room, staring. Leaning on a cane like he was straight out of some secret-agent movie. He had an eye patch—an eye patch!—and looked like a grizzled version of Nick Fury who had retired but still showed up to work just to mess with people.
The man, to her growing irritation, was staring right at her. No, scratch that—he was practically inspecting her, like she was some kind of lab experiment. Great, just what she needed. Some weird old guy judging her in a waiting room.
She stared back, trying to ignore him. Maybe he'd go away. No such luck. He sauntered over, his cane tapping the floor with each step. When he was close enough to be even more irritating, he spoke.
He sauntered over, hands in his pockets, and without any preamble, he said, "Not much time left, huh?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Time. You're running out of it." He looked her up and down like he could actually see the cancer.
Her jaw clenched. "Wow, charming. Thanks for that uplifting observation, Stranger Danger. Now, can you go back to whatever creepy corner you came from?"He shrugged. "Just stating the facts."
"Okay, well, maybe you should keep your facts to yourself." She turned away, pretending to go back to her phone, but inside she was seething.
"Hey, I'm just here to help," he said, that smirk never leaving his face.
She whipped her head around, eyes narrowed. "Help? Do you have some magic cancer-curing elixir in your pocket, or are you just full of crap?"
"Not exactly. But I can offer you something better than chemo. Something that could, oh I don't know, give you another shot at life."
She rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw her brain. "Oh, sure. Why not. What is it? A crystal? Some essential oils? Herbal tea?"
He grinned, as if she'd said something funny. "No, nothing like that. But there's a catch."
"Of course, there is. There's always a catch. Spill it, Mister Mysterious."
"I can give you a second lease on life. But you'll have to give up something important."
She raised an eyebrow. "Like what? My Netflix password? My collection of old concert t-shirts?"
"No," he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Your freedom."She snorted. "My freedom? Dude, I already gave that up when I started paying bills. What's next? You gonna tell me I have to live in a basement?"
He straightened up, his expression still infuriatingly calm. "You'd be surprised what kind of deal I'm offering. One last time: Do you want to live, or are you happy to roll over and die?"
She was about to tell him to shove his offer where the sun doesn't shine, but then a thought hit her. Her parents. Their devastated faces, broken beyond repair if they lost her too. Her mom would probably cry so much she'd turn into a raisin.
She sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. I don't want to die. But I swear, if you're just selling timeshares, I'm out."
He smirked again, but this time there was something almost... genuine in his eyes. "You won't regret it."
Before she could say anything, he turned and walked out the door, leaving her standing there, unsure of whether she'd just made the best or worst decision of her life. Either way, her day couldn't get much weirder.
Could it?