Death surrounds us everywhere we look if we're paying attention. The dried-up crumbling leaves on the sidewalks, the squashed bug guts on a windshield, the old couple saying goodbye at the hospital – all inescapable proof that nothing lasts forever.

As kids, we know death exists in some distant concept, but it feels so far away. All we can see is the bright future ahead of us shimmering with potential – graduating high school, going to college, getting our dream job, falling in love, having our own family someday. Death is an abstract idea that grown-ups worry about, not us.

But then, just like that, reality can come crashing down. One routine doctor's visit, one biopsy result, one sentence like "I'm sorry, it's cancer" – and suddenly that infinite future you took for granted has shattered into a million pieces at your feet.

Now, instead of making plans for the life you had imagined, you're desperately trying to outrun the clock, mapping out your final months on this earth. Your dreams get reduced to a checklist – finishing treatments, getting your affairs in order, maybe taking one last vacation if you're lucky.

No more daydreaming about your fairytale wedding or what you'll name your firstborn. Instead, you're scouring hospice brochures and pre-planning your funeral because you're only seventeen years old and you're dying.

I shift uncomfortably, the plastic chair squeaking under me. The off-white walls press in from all sides, decorated only with faded motivational posters about health and healing that now seem meaningless. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a dim glow over the row of empty seats beside us.

Mum's fingers are drumming against her leg while Dad stares blankly at a rickety side table piled high with old magazines, his face drawn and haunted. The musty waiting room air feels thick enough to choke on.

This was only supposed to be a precaution, one of those "better safe than sorry" situations. But somehow, in the pit of my churning stomach, I knew something was wrong this time.

It started a few months ago—the bone-deep exhaustion that wouldn't go away no matter how many hours I slept. I'd stumble out of bed after ten hours, feeling more drained than when I had laid down. Then strange bruises started appearing, ugly dark purple splotches scattering across my skin.

I tried to brush it off at first, convincing myself I was just clumsy and tired from the stress of school. But Mum grew increasingly worried each day as she observed me for any other signs that something wasn't right.

Before I knew it, I was thrown from appointment to appointment in what felt like a never-ending medical merry-go-round. Nurses withdrew vial after vial of my blood while I obediently rolled up my sleeves, getting poked and prodded like a human pin cushion. Weird machines bombarded me with radiation, taking X-rays and ultrasounds, and God knows what else. It was an endless, exhausting loop.

"Elizabeth Reid?"

The nurse's voice finally slices through the tension in the room. Her tone is carefully neutral, but it feels like a grenade has just landed at our feet. Mum and Dad snap to attention, their eyes widening in fear. I steel myself, taking one last deep breath before we hear the results determining my future.

The nurse leading us back is the same one who took my blood at my last appointment—Mrs. Rodgers, I think her name was. She's pretty old, with wispy grey hair and pale skin. Somehow, her tired face and hunched shuffle don't exactly instil confidence.

We follow her down the hall, the squeak of her shoes on the cheap tile floor echoing loudly. She holds the door open, ushering us into the small office. To my surprise, Mrs. Rogers sits in the corner instead of leaving.

Dr. Patterson is already sitting behind his desk in front of the big window overlooking the parking lot. He's the same doctor who originally sent us for all the scans and tests after my symptoms persisted.

The room is bright and sunny, light pouring in around him. I try to focus on the warmth on my face as we take our seats across from his desk. Mum reaches over Dad to clutch my hand tightly.

"Good morning," Dr. Patterson says, leaning forward. He's a kind-looking man, always with a soft smile and gentle voice. But today, there are no smiles, only a grim expression that makes my heart plummet.

He clears his throat. "I'm afraid I don't have good news."

The words punch me in the gut before he even finishes. Mum squeezes my hand harder.

"The results from Elizabeth's scans and biopsies...well, they indicate that she has pancreatic cancer. Stage four, to be exact. I'm so sorry, but it has spread quite extensively." His face is etched with sadness and pity.

My head spins as the weight of that word – cancer – slams into me. This can't be happening, not to me. I'm only seventeen; I have my whole life ahead of me.

But the doctor is still talking, his voice sounding far away and muffled. "...very advanced stage...treatment options are limited at this point..."

In the corner, I notice Mrs Rogers has grabbed a tissue and is dabbing at her eyes as she watches our world fall apart.

Mum's crying now, burying her face in Dad's shoulder as he stares vacantly, shell-shocked. I feel numb, like I'm watching this nightmare unfold from outside my body.

A lump forms in my throat as I think about breaking this news to Meredith, my sweet six-year-old sister. And Nathan, my best friend since we were babies – how will he ever process me being ripped away like this when we're supposed to be growing old together?

Dr. Patterson takes a deep breath. "I wish I had better news to give you. But in Elizabeth's case, barring a miracle, we're looking at a prognosis of maybe six months."

Six months? That's it, that's all the life I have left. The room starts spinning violently.

"You need to prepare yourselves..." his voice drones on, but I can barely hear him anymore.

Frail, shrivelled, Mrs Rogers passes me a tissue box, her sympathetic eyes swimming with pity. I take one numbly, feeling like the world just got shattered into a million pieces around me.

I sit there in stunned silence as the doctor's words ring in my ears – six months, that's all the time I have left to live. It doesn't feel real; it can't be real. This has to be just a horrible nightmare that I'm going to wake up from any second now.

Mum is sobbing uncontrollably, her whole body shaking as gut-wrenching cries pour out of her. Dad has just gone blank-faced, like his brain hit the panic override and shut everything down to cope with the shock.

I can't even imagine what fresh hell they're experiencing right now. Seeing the child you created, nurtured, and loved with every fibre of your being only to be told you'll lose them in a matter of months.

It's cruel.

My hands tremble as I clutch the tissue box Mrs. Rodgers handed me. Her eyes bore into me, expecting me to cry and fully understand the dire situation. But my mind just won't—can't—accept it. I'm too young. I had my whole future perfectly mapped out. This was supposed to be the start of my life, not the end of it.

Dr Patterson gives us a few minutes to process the devastating blow. When he finally continues, his voice is heavy with empathy. "I know this is the worst possible scenario, and I'm so sorry you must go through this. But we're not out of options yet."

He explains that while the disease is terminal at this stage, we can still pursue palliative chemotherapy. It's an aggressive treatment regimen designed to attack the cancer cells and hopefully shrink the tumour, potentially buying me a little more time. Just not much – maybe another few months at most if it works.

It also lessens your symptoms apparently.

"It's a long shot...but it's a shot," he says gently. "I'll give you some time to discuss and decide if you want to proceed with that route."

More time? It is as if having a handful of extra weeks or months dangled in front of me is some kind of gift. My chest feels too tight like the walls are closing in. I can't breathe.

When I finally find my voice, it comes out in a hoarse, trembling whisper. "So...so there's no actual cure? No way to beat this?"

The doctor shakes his head slowly, his expression grave. "I'm afraid not. Not at this stage. The cancer is too advanced and widespread for any of the typical treatments to be effective long-term. All we can hope to do is try to buy you a little more time."

Those words hang heavy in the air. More time...but for what? To drag out the inevitable truth that I'm going to die before I even get to live my life? Heated tears start streaking down my cheeks before I can stop them.

The unfairness crashes over me in waves of fury and despair. This cannot be how my story ends, not like this. I always dreamed of growing up, going to college, falling in love, having a career and family. Getting married in a beautiful white dress and clutching a bouquet as I walk down the aisle. Hearing the cries of my newborn baby and growing old with laugh lines around my eyes from all the happiness and joy that life promised.

Those are the kinds of scenes that are supposed to play out for a teenage girl, not being told you're going to be dead in under a year.

But no matter how many times my brain tries to reject and rebel against it, we all know the harsh reality sitting before us now.

I'm dying.

There's no outrunning it or bargaining for more time – death is coming for me soon, whether I'm ready or not.

The bright sunlight filtering through the window suddenly feels like a sickening taunt of the beautiful world being ripped away too soon. As the doctor starts discussing treatment arrangements, I tune it all out, retreating inside the anguished screams echoing through my mind.

How can this be happening? How am I supposed to keep going, knowing my life is getting cut off almost before it starts? I'll never get to experience all the milestones I dreamed about. I can't even fathom that kind of loss.

This isn't life. This is being robbed of one. As my parents dissolve into utter devastation next to me, I feel like my entire world and future have just shattered into a kaleidoscope of broken dreams around us all. No amount of palliative chemotherapy or extra time could ever put the pieces back together.

"No...no, this can't be right," I mumble numbly, shaking my head back and forth. "You must have mixed up the results with someone else's file. Because there is no way I have...that."

Mum lets out another sob, burying her face in Dad's chest. He sits there still, bewildered and frozen.

Dr Patterson looks at me. "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry, but there's no mistake. The scans and biopsies confirmed it's stage 4 pancreatic cancer."

The way he states the facts so bluntly makes it feel that much more real, like a judge issuing a death sentence.

"But I'm only seventeen!" I cry out, anger and denial swirling inside me. Tears burn in my eyes. "I'm too young! This only happens to older people who smoke and live unhealthy lives. Not me, not kids!"

"I know, I know," the doctor says gently, his expression pained. "Believe me, I don't see many cases like yours at your age. This is a rare case for me...and extremely aggressive, I'm afraid."

Aggressive. Such a mild, inoffensive word to describe the monster that's ravaging my body and robbing me of my future. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as a wave of dizziness washes over me.

"Beth?" Mum chokes out, leaning over Dad and grabbing my arm through her tears. "Baby, did you hear what the doctor said? About...about doing chemo and trying to get you some more time?"

I blink rapidly. This cannot be my life, not when it was supposed to be just the very beginning. I was going to NYU next year to study nursing, join a million clubs and take the world by storm. I'd go to concerts and art exhibits, fall stupidly in love, and make best friends for life. After graduation, I want to intern at a hospital and land my dream job.

One day, I'd get married, have two perfect kids, and have a career I was passionate about. I'd grow old, surrounded by loved ones, with grandchildren playing at my feet.

That's what my future was supposed to look like. Not getting told as a kid that I'd be dead before I ever even really got to start living. The dreams and beautiful plans I had for my life can't just be erased so easily.

"Elizabeth?" Dr Patterson gently pulls me back to the awful moment at hand. "I need you to understand how dire and advanced your situation is. We're going to do everything we can to fight this, but your prognosis is...it's not very good, I'm afraid."

I open my mouth to protest; insist they re-run the tests or get a second opinion—anything to make this nightmare disappear. But the words won't come out. Because as much as I don't want to believe it, I know he's telling me the heart-shattering truth.

Dad finally seems to snap out of his trance, his eyes refocusing as he pulls me tightly against his side. "What do we do now, Doctor? Please, there has to be some treatment option or medicine or something to help her beat this."

I cling to him desperately, a lost little girl just wishing my dad could magically make the monsters go away like when I was little.

The doctor let out a weary sigh. "As I mentioned, we can pursue an aggressive chemotherapy regimen to try to attack the cancer cells and shrink the tumour. It's palliative rather than curative, but it could buy Elizabeth some extra months if it works well."

He pauses, letting those words linger like a ticking time bomb in the heavy silence.

"I wish I could give you better news or a more definitive solution," he continues solemnly. "But the reality is... we have to manage end-of-life care and quality of life at this stage."

End-of-life care. The words twist like a knife in my gut, making me want to double over from the pain and injustice of it all.

Mum dissolves into a sobbing, hiccupping mess again. "Oh god...oh god, my baby...my poor baby girl."

I feel numb like my brain is short-circuiting from emotional overload. This isn't real. It can't be real.

But here we are, numb and shattered in this room as Dr Patterson drones on about treatment and planning for whatever time I have left.

Eventually, his voice fades into white noise, drowned out by the screams echoing endlessly in my mind. How can this be happening? It's like the beautiful future I had envisioned for myself has been erased, ripped away even.

I should be making plans to go out with Nathan, getting into trouble, doing normal teenage things, and not having "end-of-life" plans made for me. The anger burns through me as I finally break, collapsing against Dad as the sobs rip out from my very core.

At that moment, it still doesn't feel real. It can't be real. If it is, then it means my entire life and dreams have just been stamped with a vicious expiration date that no seventeen-year-old should ever have to face.

Chapter One

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