I stared at the hospital entrance, my stomach churning. Mum squeezed my hand, offering a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Ready, love?"

No. Not even close. But I nodded anyway, taking a deep breath as we walked through the automatic doors.

The smell hit me first—antiseptic and something else, something uniquely hospital-y, that made my skin crawl. I hated this place. I hated the too-bright lights, the squeaky linoleum floors, and the constant beeping of machines.

It reminded me of when I was little when I'd broken my arm falling out of a tree. I'd spent hours in A&E, surrounded by moaning patients and harried nurses. The fear and pain of that day had stuck with me, making every hospital visit since a trial.

And now here I was, about to start palliative chemo. Palliative. The word echoed in my head, a constant reminder that this wasn't about getting better. It was about buying time.

We checked in at reception and found seats in the waiting area. I fidgeted with the zipper of my jacket, wishing I'd brought a book or something to distract myself. Wishing Nathan was here.

I'd thought about asking him to come, but it felt like too much. He'd already done so much, given up so much of his time. And part of me didn't want him to see me like this - pale, scared, about to be pumped full of drugs that would make me feel even worse before they made me feel better.

Still, I couldn't help imagining him sitting next to me, cracking jokes to make me laugh, holding my hand when things got tough. I pushed the thought away. Mum was here. That would have to be enough.

I glanced around the waiting room, trying not to stare at the other patients. Some looked okay, chatting with their families or scrolling through their phones. Others... well, they looked like I felt. Scared. Tired. A glimpse of my possible future.

Mum must have sensed my unease because she started chattering about nothing in particular. Meri's upcoming dance recital and the new garden she planned for next spring. I let her words wash over me, grateful for the distraction.

"Elizabeth Reid?"

I jumped at the sound of my name, my heart racing. This was it. No turning back now.

As we stood to follow the nurse, I caught sight of my reflection in a nearby window. My face was pale, and I had dark circles under my eyes. My hair was already starting to thin. I barely recognised myself.

For a moment, I considered running. Just turning around and bolting out those automatic doors, pretending none of this was happening. But then I felt Mum's hand on my back, gentle but firm, guiding me forward.

One step at a time, I told myself. That's all I had to do—one step at a time.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The nurse led us down a long corridor, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. I tried to focus on that sound, anything to distract from the knot in my stomach. We passed room after room, some with doors closed, others open enough for me to catch glimpses of patients in beds. I quickly looked away.

Finally, we reached a room labelled "Chemotherapy Suite." My steps faltered, but Mum's hand on my back kept me moving forward.

Inside, the room was larger than I expected, with several recliners spaced out around the perimeter. Patients in various stages of treatment occupied some: an older man reading a newspaper, a woman about Mum's age knitting something that looked like a scarf, and a girl who couldn't have been much older than me, her head wrapped in a colourful scarf, laughing at something on her phone.

The nurse directed us to an empty chair near the window. "Make yourself comfortable, Elizabeth. The doctor will be with you shortly to go over everything."

I sat down gingerly as if the chair might bite me. Mum took the seat next to me, reaching for my hand again. I let her take it, and I'm grateful for the contact.

We waited in silence for a few minutes. I watched a pigeon on the windowsill, envying its freedom to fly away. Machine beeps filled the room with murmured conversations and occasional laughter. It all felt surreal as if I were watching a scene in a film rather than living it.

A doctor appeared, clipboard in hand. "Elizabeth? I'm Dr Watson. How are you feeling today?"

I wanted to laugh. How was I feeling? Terrified. Angry. Like I wanted to be anywhere but here. Instead, I just shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Dr Watson nodded, pulling up a stool to sit across from me. "I know this can be overwhelming. We're going to go through everything step by step, alright? Feel free to stop me at any time if you have questions."

He explained the treatment plan, the potential side effects, and what to expect over the next few weeks. I tried to listen; I did, but the words seemed to blur together: nausea, fatigue, hair loss, and increased risk of infection.

Mum was nodding along, asking questions I couldn't bring myself to voice. How long would each session last? What should we watch out for at home? When would we know if it was working?

Working. As if this treatment could fix anything. It was just buying time, and we all knew it.

Finally, Dr Watson finished his explanation. "Are you ready to begin?"

No. I wanted to say no. I wanted to run out of there and never look back. But I nodded instead. "Yeah. Let's do it."

A nurse came over with a tray of equipment. I looked away as she prepared my arm, not wanting to see the needle. I felt a sharp prick, then a strange coolness spreading through my veins.

"All set," the nurse chirped. "You'll be here for a few hours. Try to relax, maybe bring a book or something to keep yourself occupied next time."

Next time. Because this was just the beginning.

As the nurse walked away, I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes. The drugs were already making me feel odd, not quite nauseous, but definitely off.

Maybe I could rest for a bit. Get this over with faster.

Sounds like a plan.

✯¸.•'*¨'*•✿•*'¨*'•.¸✯

I must've dozed off for a bit. When I opened my eyes, something felt different. The room was quieter, I think. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head. Damn, drugs were making everything fuzzy.

Mum was still sitting next to me, tapping her phone and probably texting Dad or something. I thought about asking her what time it was, but talking felt like way too much effort.

I looked around the room instead. Most of the chairs were empty now. Did people leave while I was out? Or was I just imagining that they were full before?

I was about to close my eyes again when I noticed something move by the door.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A young boy walked in with his parents. He couldn't have been more than eight or so. At first, I didn't think much of it—just another patient, right? But then I noticed how carefully his mum was guiding him, how he was moving slowly and unsure.

"Tommy, mind the chair," his mum said, and that's when it hit me. He was blind.

They sat beside us, and Tommy's dad started chatting with my mum. It was typical parent stuff, I guess—trying to be normal in a really not-normal situation.

I couldn't stop staring at Tommy. He swung his legs, head tilted like he was trying to catch every sound. His mum caught me looking and smiled. "You can talk to him if you want. He loves meeting new people."

So I did. "Hey, Tommy. I'm Beth."

His whole face lit up. "Hi, Beth! Are you here for the magic medicine, too?"

Magic medicine. God, that got me. "Yeah," I said. "Something like that."

We talked for a bit. He told me about his audiobooks and how he was learning Braille. His parents filled in the gaps - cancer took his sight, but they were hoping for a transplant thing that might help him see again.

"I really want to see the stars," Tommy said. "Dad says they're like tiny lights up in the sky."

That hit me hard. I felt sorry for myself, and this kid who couldn't even see was talking about stars like they were the most amazing thing ever.

"They are pretty cool," I told him. "When you see them, it'll be extra special 'cause you've waited so long."

Tommy grinned at me, and for a second, I forgot about all the crap. The drugs, the fear, all of it. I just wanted this kid to see those stars he was so excited about.

When they left for Tommy's treatment, his mum squeezed my hand. "Thanks," she whispered. "It's been ages since he smiled like that."

I watched them go, thinking about Tommy and his stars. Maybe I could learn something from him. About hoping for stuff, even when everything sucks.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. But instead of focusing on the annoying hospital noises, I thought about Tommy's laugh. And for the first time all day, I didn't feel quite so crappy.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I seemed to have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, Mum was gently shaking my shoulder. "Beth? The nurse says we're almost done."

I blinked, disoriented. The room had emptied while I slept; only a couple of patients left. The sky outside the window had darkened considerably.

The nurse came over to remove the IV. "How are you feeling?"

"Weird," I admitted. "Kind of... floaty?"

She nodded. "That's normal. You might feel a bit off for the next day or so. Make sure to drink plenty of water and rest."

As we gathered our things to leave, I caught sight of myself in a mirror on the wall. I looked even paler than before if that was possible. My hair seemed thinner, though that was probably just my imagination. It was too soon for any fundamental changes, wasn't it?

The walk back through the hospital corridors felt twice as long as earlier. Every step was an effort, my body heavy and uncooperative. By the time we reached the car, I was exhausted.

Mum helped me into the passenger seat, buckling me in like a child. I was too tired to feel embarrassed.

As we drove home, I stared out the window at the passing streetlights. Each one blurred into the next, creating streaks of light against the dark sky.

It reminded me of the glow-in-the-dark stars Nathan and I had stuck on my bedroom ceiling when we were kids. We'd spent hours arranging them into constellations, giggling as we made up our own ridiculous stories about each one.

I wondered what Nathan was doing right now. Probably homework or playing that new video game he'd been excited about—normal teenage stuff.

Part of me wished I'd asked him to come today and be with me through this, but another part was glad he wasn't. I didn't want him to see me like this—weak and scared and so very, very mortal.

"We're home, love," Mum's voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up, surprised to see our house. The porch light was on, and I saw Dad's silhouette through the living room window. He was waiting up for us, no doubt.

As Mum helped me out of the car, the front door opened. Dad came out, worry etched on his face. "How'd it go?"

I managed a weak smile. "Still alive."

He pulled me into a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. "That's my girl."

We went inside, where Meri was curled up on the couch, fast asleep despite her earlier insistence that she'd wait up for us.

"I'll take her up," Dad said, scooping Meri into his arms.

I watched them go, a lump forming in my throat. How many more nights like this would we have? How long before I couldn't climb the stairs on my own before I was the one being carried to bed?

"Do you want something to eat?" Mum asked, hovering uncertainly.

I shook my head. "I think I just want to sleep."

She nodded, helping me up the stairs and into my room. As she turned to leave, I caught her hand. "Mum?"

"Yes, love?"

I swallowed hard. "Thank you. For being there today."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back, giving me a watery smile. "Always, Beth. I'm always here for you."

After she left, I lay in bed, staring at those glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. They'd faded over the years, barely visible now in the darkness of my room. But I knew they were there.

I reached for my phone, hesitating momentarily before typing a message to Nathan.

"Made it through the first chemo. Feeling weird but okay. Thanks for being my friend."

His reply came almost instantly. "Always. Do you want me to come over tomorrow? I've got a new terrible movie we can mock."

I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. "Sounds perfect."

As I drifted off to sleep, I held onto that feeling. The knowledge that no matter how dark things got, I had people who loved me. Who would be there, holding my hand, until the very end.

It wasn't a cure. But maybe, just maybe, it was enough.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​