Chapter 48
SAM
I wake up and the first thing I notice is the heaviness. My body feels like it's been poured full of cement, limbs sinking into the mattress as if I might melt straight through to the floor below. Even my eyelids resist when I try to lift them, like they've been stitched with invisible thread while I slept. My stomach aches—deep and sore, like someone punched straight through my abdomen and left the bruise behind.
"Hey, honey."
My mom's voice reaches me through the fog.
I blink several times, trying to clear the haze clinging to my vision. The hospital room slowly comes into focus—the pale walls, the steady blinking of the monitor beside me, the IV line tugging at the crook of my arm.
I push my hands against the mattress, trying to sit up.
"Careful, honey."
Mom is immediately beside me, sliding a pillow behind my back so I can lean against it.
"Thanks, Mom," I murmur.
She brushes her fingers gently through my hair, smoothing it away from my forehead the way she used to when I was little. Then she lifts a plastic hospital cup with a straw and holds it to my lips.
"Here. Take small sips."
God, I'm so thirsty.
I wrap my fingers weakly around the cup and take a long drink. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly like plastic, but it might as well be heaven.
When I finally lower the cup, I glance around the room and notice my brother isn't here, which is weird because Zach had never left my side since the day he rushed me to the hospital—not even when he's dead tired or how much I told him to go take a rest. Not when the nurses practically beg him to go sleep somewhere that isn't a stiff vinyl chair.
"Where's Zach?"
Mom sighs softly.
"Caroline took him back to his dorm a little while ago."
"He left?"
"He didn't want to." Mom gives a small smile. "Your brother was determined to sit there until you woke up, but Care reminded him that his practice starts again tomorrow. And he really needs to rest."
That sounds like Zach.
My brother has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders like it's his personal responsibility to keep it from crushing everyone else.
Even when it isn't his fault.
I know my brother is blaming himself again, beating himself up for something that is out of his control. As if he personally invited the cancer back into my body.
Mom settles back in the chair beside my bed, but I can see the exhaustion etched into her face. The shadows under her eyes are darker than I've ever seen them.
It's only been a week and somehow she already looks ten years older.
Guilt twists in my chest.
I did this to her.
"Your brother had been worried sick after you started vomiting earlier and crying in pain," she continues, trying to force lightness into her voice that doesn't reach her eyes. "Dr. Wilcott said you have a leak in your intestinal wall, but she said there's nothing to worry about because it's very small and it's contained. They're treating it with antibiotics and letting your bowels rest."
She pauses, attempting a teasing smile.
"But you know your brother, he worries too much. If someone sneezes near you, he's ready to call a surgical team." She smiles weakly, as if we're discussing something mundane like Zach fretting over a math test.
"How are you feeling now, honey? Any pain?" Her eyes search mine, desperate for good news.
"I'm fine," I hesitate for a bit. The truth is, my stomach still feels like it's been run over by a truck. My muscles ache. My head is spinning.
But Mom already looks like she's barely holding herself together. So I lie.
"I'm okay," I say lightly. "Just sore. But it's better than earlier."
"Are you sure? I can call the nurse—"
"Mom, really. I'm okay." I squeeze her hand.
For a minute, there's just the beep-whoosh of machines keeping track of me.
Then Mom clears her throat. "Dr. Wilcott says she feels really good about the treatment plan this time."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere dark inside me.
"Right."
Mom's forehead wrinkles. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That's what they said last time too," I say, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "Super confident. So positive. Blah blah blah." My fingers twist the thread until it snaps. "And yet... here we are."
Mom's mouth goes tight, that thing she does when she's trying not to cry.
"Is this just my life now?" I whisper. "I get cancer... I fight it... I win... and then a few years later it comes back and we do this whole thing all over again?"
Something catches in my throat.
"More needles. More puking. More... everything." My chest feels like it's caving in. "I'm tired, Mom. So tired. It's hard enough watching you and Zach go through this every time," I whisper. "I hate seeing what it does to you."
I can't stop the words now.
"Sometimes I think maybe everyone would be better off if I just... died."
The second it's out, I want to take it back especially when I see my mom's face crumples.
"Oh God—Sam—don't ever say that." She pulls me into her arms, her body shaking with sobs. "Don't ever say that again," she whispers fiercely against my hair. "I can't bear to lose a child. I can't, Sam. I just can't."
I immediately wrap my arm around her, feeling the gentle tremors running through her body. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry," I whisper, over and over, like a prayer or a penance.
"It might be different this time," she says finally, pulling back and wiping her eyes. "No—it will be different this time. The transplant will make the difference." Her voice is suddenly full of conviction, as if saying it firmly enough will make it true.
I don't remind her that the transplant didn't make a difference to Dad. That it actually killed him faster than the cancer would have. That watching him disappear, day by day, was the cruelest part of all.
But she's hurting enough. So I stay quiet and let myself be enveloped in her warm hug, pretending for both our sakes that I believe it too.
"In a few weeks," she continues, stroking my back, "we'll find a donor match for you, and as soon as you achieve remission from the chemo, you can start with the transplant. Dr. Wilcott said the success rates are very good for someone your age."
I close my eyes against her shoulder.
A few days ago, Dr. Wilcott told us that Zach and Mom weren't matches for me, so they began searching the national registry, which can sometimes take weeks to months. For me, things aren't looking up. Time is the one thing I might not have enough of.
But I try to give Mom a convincing smile anyway. I've gotten good at those—smiles that don't reach my eyes but are just bright enough to make the people I love worry a little less. To let them sleep at night without the crushing weight of what's coming.
"Sure, Mom," I say softly.
She holds me tighter, and I rest my head against her shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. I wonder how many more times I'll get to hear it before mine stops altogether.
I'm lying in the hospital bed with Mom wrapped around me like a shield I don' t deserve when my phone buzzes. I reach for it—my heart thudding—and freeze when I see who's calling.
It's Eli.
I haven't heard from him for a week, not since he went to Naples. When Zach brought me to the hospital, my biggest fear was that Eli would find out about my cancer that way. But thankfully, he was out of reach when that happened. Still, I've been feeling weary that he never once reached out to me since he left for Naples. He told me he'd give me space, yes—but I didn't think he meant this much space.
He didn't even text during Christmas.
A dull ache settles in my chest.
Maybe he got tired of waiting.
Maybe he finally gave up.
I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel about that.
Relief—because if he's already letting go, maybe his feelings weren't deep enough to break him when I'm gone.
Or sadness—because no matter how hard I tried to push him away, there was always a tiny, stubborn part of me hoping he wouldn't leave. Hoping he'd stay. Hoping he'd still be there if I somehow managed to survive this.
Getting a call from Eli right now is making my heart beat all over the place, each pulse a question: Answer? Don't answer? Hope? Don't hope?
I stare at my phone for what feels like forever, paralyzed by indecision.
"Are you going to answer it?" Mom asks softly.
I look at her with eyes that are suddenly misty. "I don't think I should."
Mom gives me a sad smile. "Why not?"
"I'm scared," I whisper, the words barely making it past my lips. "Scared of him finding out. I'm scared that if he doesn't know yet... I won't have the courage to tell him."
I take a shaky breath that feels like glass in my throat. "Or worse—if he finds out I'm sick, it'll break his heart. He'll try to be strong, to be there for me, but I'll see it in his eyes—that horrible mixture of pity and grief and fear. I can't bear that, Mom."
The phone keeps ringing, Eli's name flashing like an accusation.
"I can't," I whisper, letting the phone ring in my hand.
I curl into Mom's arms and cry until my chest shakes. When I can breathe again, she strokes my hair.
"Is this why you pushed him away?" she asks. "When all your life, you wanted to be with him?"
I nod, and fresh tears spill down my cheeks.
"I was so happy when Eli finally told me he loves me." I smile through my tears, a broken laugh escaping. "God, Mom, you don't know how long I've wanted to hear those words from him. How many nights I spent imagining what it would be like to be his. But how can I be with him when there's no guarantee I'll make it out of this alive?"
Mom tries to speak, but I shake my head.
"Being with him would be unfair to Eli," I continue, "Because if I let my heart decide... if I let myself be with him, I'm afraid that this will scar him for life. He just learned to believe in love and finally letting someone in, and if I die on him," My fingers twist in the hospital blanket as I struggle to keep my voice steady. "It's going to destroy him."
Hot tears blur my vision.
"He'll spend the rest of his life carrying that. Wondering what he could've done differently. Wondering if he should've held on tighter..." My voice catches, and I press my palm against my chest where something seems to be collapsing inward. "... loved me harder... stayed longer."
Each word scrapes my throat like broken glass.
"And I don' t want—" I swallow hard, twice, "— to be the reason he walks around with that kind of pain for the rest of his life."
Mom opens her mouth to respond, but I shift on the bed so I'm facing her completely, the IV line pulling taut between us.
"Mom... I know you still cry for Dad. I hear you sometimes," I continue softly. "Late at night. When you think Zach and I are asleep."
I let out a shaky breath. " Five years, Mom. Five years and you' re still grieving him like it happened yesterday, like the wound is still fresh and bleeding."
Her lips tremble, the same way they did at his funeral when she tried so hard not to fall apart in front of everyone.
"When Dad died, it broke you," I whisper. "And I know you try to be strong for us... but your heart never really healed."
I swallow hard, my tongue feeling thick and unwieldy as I force myself to say the part that hurts the most.
"You still sleep with his gray Gator shirt every night, the one with the little tear on the left sleeve where he caught it on the fence that summer."
Mom looks away.
"It's worn thin now," I say softly. "But you still hold it like it's the only thing that lets you fall asleep. That's what losing someone you love does to a person." I shake my head slowly.
"And I can't do that to Eli. I can' t leave him with that kind of pain..."
I swipe at my face over and over, but the tears keep coming faster than I can clear them away.
"I can' t leave him trying to sleep every night holding onto something that smells like me... just to survive the darkness that never really ends."
Mom's tears stream down her face as she caresses mine, her fingers trembling against my skin.
"You don't get to decide that," she says quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "Elijah gets to decide if that's a risk he's willing to take. He gets to decide if loving you is worth the pain that might come with it."
Her thumb wipes away another tear sliding down my cheek.
"And if Elijah is anything like me..." she takes a shaky breath, her voice faltering for a second, "then he would take that pain in a heartbeat."
I shake my head desperately.
"But he's only going to get hurt, Mom," I choke out. "I know he will. And it'll be my fault."
The words taste like broken glass in my mouth.
"I'm the one who pushed myself into his life. I'm the one who kept chasing him when he tried to keep his distance." My chest tightens painfully. "I should have stopped a long time ago. I should have walked away before he started caring about me like this. "
Mom brushes loose strands of hair—brittle now, nothing like the silky waves I once had— from my face before she snakes her arm around me and pulls me closer.
"But I couldn't, I was too selfish. I wanted him too much."
As I sob against her shoulder, dampening the soft cotton of her faded blue sweater, a question forms in my mind—one I've wondered about for years but never had the courage to ask.
"Mom..." I whisper, my lips barely moving against the fabric, "If you had the chance to redo your life... knowing how it would end... would you still choose Dad?"
"Yes."
The answer comes so quickly it knocks the air from my lungs.
I pull back slightly to look at her, "Even if you knew he was going to die so young?"
"Yes," she says again, her voice steady and certain.
She holds my gaze, her eyes shining with a lifetime of love and grief.
"No matter how many times I lived that life... even if every single one ended the same way... I would still choose your father."
Her mouth quivers, "Because the love we had was worth it," she says. "It was worth every moment. Worth every memory. Worth every laugh and every ordinary day we got to share."
A tear slips down her cheek.
"The pain of losing him was unbearable," she admits softly. "But it still doesn't erase the years we had together. If anything, it makes them more precious."
She cups my face in her hands, the metal of her wedding ring cool against my feverish skin. "I would choose your dad again and again—even knowing how bad it would hurt when I lost him."
My chest feels like someone's sitting on it.
"So instead of pushing Elijah away because you're afraid of hurting him..." she says softly, "you should cherish whatever time the two of you get to have."
She squeezes my shoulders as her voice grows firmer.
"Don't waste it, honey. Don't spend it running away from the person you love."
Her thumbs wipe away my tears, leaving cool trails on my hot cheeks.
"Love him," she gives me an encouraging smile. "Make memories with him. Be happy with him, even in the middle of all this."
Her voice falters.
"And if the day come that... you're not here anymore..." she stumbles over the words, "...then Elijah will still have those memories to hold on to."
Her fingers squeeze mine gently.
"They'll hurt, yes. But they'll also remind him that he was loved. That what you shared mattered."
She swallows hard.
"That's not cruelty, honey. That's a gift, a gift that only you can give him."
I can't stop the ugly crying now.
The thought alone is enough to break my heart all over again.
"I want him," I cry, my voice shaking. "I want him with me—for however long I have left."
My hands clutch the blanket like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
"I want him to know that if I survive this... we'll be together. That's what I want. That's what I've always wanted."
More tears blur my vision.
"He's the only one I've ever wanted. But I'm scared to tell him that," I admit. "Because I don't know what's going to happen."
The words come out in broken fragments.
"If I don't make it... if this is really the end... Wouldn't it be kinder to keep pushing him away now... before his feelings for me go any deeper?"
The room suddenly fills with the sharp sound of the door slamming open.
Both Mom and I turn at the same time.
Eli stands in the doorway.
"No... it wouldn't be kinder. It would be cruel." he says. His face is pale, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His eyes are red like he's already been crying.
"And I've never known you to be cruel, sweetheart."
"Eli..."
His eyes lock on mine and I realize that he knows. That he knows the truth.
I feel Mom moving beside me, kissing my forehead as she whispers that she's going to give us privacy. I barely register her leaving—my entire world has narrowed to his face, to the way his hands tremble at his sides.
"How much of our conversation did you hear?"
"Every...thing."
The word drags out of him, uneven and frayed, like it hurts to let it go.
My lower lip trembles before I can stop it, a cold shiver working its way up my spine as I watch him take a sharp, unsteady breath. And then it happens—right there, right in front of me.
I see the exact second his heart breaks.
"Please..." he whispers hoarsely. "Please tell me I didn't hear what I think I just heard."
My throat clenches so tight I can't swallow. Eli takes a faltering step forward, hands still trembling at his sides.
"Tell me this isn't real," he begs, voice splintering. "Tell me you're not dying, Sam."
The pain settles into his face so plainly it feels almost unbearable to look at. The tears gather faster than he can stop them, clinging to his lashes for a brief, fragile moment before they slip free.
"Please," he chokes. "Just... tell me this is some kind of mistake. Tell me the doctors are wrong. Tell me you're not… leaving me."
My chest caves in on itself, like my ribs can't hold everything inside me anymore. It isn't just pain—it's pressure, crushing and relentless, like something inside me is being dragged out piece by piece and I can't do anything to stop it.
My hand trembles as I slowly lift it toward him.
Instantly, he lunges forward—desperate, frantic—sliding up onto the bed. His fingers find mine and grip so tightly I can feel every tremor in his skin.
The second his arms wrap around me, he holds me like he's terrified to let go.
And that's when we both completely fall apart.
My face presses into his shoulder as sobs tear through my chest.
Eli buries his face in my hair, his body shaking just as hard.
Neither of us tries to stop the tears. We just cling to each other—like the world outside this hospital room has already started falling apart.