For a little while, everything felt normal.
Alicia asked about my weekend, complained about the hospital food, and told me she intended to travel across the country once she recovered.
She had a list of places she wanted to visit, restaurants she wanted to try, and experiences she refused to miss.
She spoke about the future as though it were a room waiting for her to enter.
I wanted to believe her.
But the weeks passed, and her treatment became less effective.
Her good days grew shorter.
Her bad days became harder to hide.
Eventually, even her jokes began arriving with longer pauses between them.
One evening, I found her staring out of the window.
“Where are you traveling today?” I asked.
She turned toward me.
“Somewhere with no hospital beds.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“I’ll save up.”
I sat beside her for a few minutes. She told me she wanted to see the ocean again. She wanted to eat a meal without someone checking her blood pressure afterward. She wanted to wear a beautiful dress and dance until her feet hurt.
