The clock on the wall ticked with a malevolent insistence, each second a tiny hammer blow against the suffocating silence of the doctor's office. My gaze was fixed on the polished desk, its glossy surface mirroring my own pale, trembling hands. The air hung heavy, a physical weight pressing against my chest, constricting my breath. I curled my fingers into tight fists, desperate for some anchor, some grounding in the face of the storm raging within. The doctor's words, once sharp and clear, had dissolved into a distant hum, swallowed by the deafening roar in my head. My life, meticulously planned – college, career, the faint, hopeful whisper of love – had been brutally stripped bare, reduced to a cruel, ticking countdown.
"Six months."
Two words, stark and unforgiving, that shattered the carefully constructed edifice of my future. The rest of the consultation was a blur, a meaningless wash of medical jargon. Treatment options, palliative care, symptom management – it all felt irrelevant, insignificant. There was no cure, no miracle waiting at the end of this road, only the relentless march of time, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, impossible to grasp, impossible to hold.
The drive home was a hazy montage of blurred images. The world outside the car window, vibrant and teeming with life, felt alien, surreal. People walked, laughed, lived – their normalcy a stark contrast to the seismic shift within me. I envied them, their obliviousness to the preciousness of each mundane moment, each fleeting second. I clenched my jaw, refusing to allow the tears to fall. If I only had six months, I wouldn't waste a single second mourning what was lost.
That night, I lay awake in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding with a strange, unsettling cocktail of dread and a nascent clarity. Six months. What was I to do with six months? I could succumb to despair, wallow in self-pity, watch the days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, like water down a drain. Or I could live. Truly live.
I sat up, the sudden movement jarring me back to the present. I grabbed my phone, its cool surface a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my palms. I stared at the home screen, the familiar icons blurring slightly before my eyes. Then, almost unconsciously, my fingers began to move, searching, exploring. I opened my browser, the familiar search bar beckoning. My fingers danced across the keyboard, searching for flights, for destinations I had always dreamed of visiting but had never found the time, or the courage, to explore. The answer was clear, undeniable. I needed to escape, to find a place that would ignite my heart with excitement, a place that would drown out the fear.
That's how I found myself booking a one-way ticket to Seoul.
Seoul. The name itself held a certain magic, a whispered promise of adventure. I had always dreamed of wandering through its neon-drenched streets, of savoring the vibrant tapestry of its culinary scene, of feeling the pulse of a city that never seemed to sleep. But dreams, I had always told myself, were for "later." Later, when I had the time, the money, the convenience.
There was no "later" anymore. There was only now.
The plane ride felt like the first, gasping breath after being submerged underwater for too long. I was leaving behind the sterile, antiseptic smell of hospital rooms, the pitying glances of doctors, the crushing weight of the inevitable. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt something other than fear. I felt a flicker of freedom.
Leaning back in my seat, I pulled out my phone and opened my notes app. My fingers, guided by a newfound urgency, began to type, creating a simple list, a testament to my resolve:
• Ride a motorcycle through the streets of Seoul.
• Try every street food stall I see.
• Watch the sunrise from Namsan Tower.
• Make memories that feel infinite.
• Kiss someone under the city lights.
• Dance like no one's watching.
A bucket list. My final adventure. A defiant declaration against the encroaching darkness.
I glanced out the window, watching as the city lights of Seoul grew closer, illuminating the night sky like a constellation of shimmering stars. The city awaited, a vibrant tapestry of possibilities woven into flashing neon signs and the rhythmic hum of life. I didn't know what I would find there, who I would meet, what experiences awaited me. But one thing was certain.
I wasn't going to waste a single moment.
The following weeks were a whirlwind. I visited my grandmother's grave, a quiet, tearful goodbye amidst the gentle rustling of leaves and so my journey starts.