Day 1

I never liked the idea of keeping a diary. Writing down my thoughts felt like inviting judgement—even from the paper. Seems a bit pointless, doesn’t it? But Dr. Sen said it might help. A place to sort my thoughts, he said that, leaning forward with that practised therapist's smile, like he could see straight into my soul. 

I hated it.

He looked at me that way today, like he knew something I didn’t. Like he had some secret, and I was the one who had to figure it out. It made me want to slap him. But I couldn’t. I just nodded, and now here I am, pen in hand, staring at a blank page.

Where do I even start?

These past few days I have spent most of the time in Dr. Sen’s office. Way too many tests, too many counsellings and a whole long bill. This morning, I sat in Dr. Sen’s clinic, staring at the sickly light blue, like a hospital room—sterile, cold walls. There was this faint smudge on the window, like someone had pressed their palm against it and left a ghost of a handprint. I stared at it too long. It’s weird how you start noticing things when everything feels wrong.

I tried not to look at him because I knew something was wrong. You can tell when people look at you a certain way—like they’re balancing bad news on their tongue, waiting for the right moment to let it fall.

“Six months,” he said eventually. “I’m so sorry.”

It feels like a bad joke, but the look on his face told me he wasn’t kidding.

Six months.

I blinked at him, trying to wrap my head around it. What does six months even mean? Six months isn’t even enough time to get used to the idea, is it? It’s like you’re halfway through a sentence, and someone cuts you off. Just... done. It is like an exam result day countdown, where you don’t want to get your report, so every day feels suffocating, dragging you closer to a moment you don’t want to face.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I wanted to cry. To scream. To punch a hole in the walls of his clinic. But I didn’t cry. I thought I would, but I didn’t.

But all I could do was sit there, staring at the clock, wishing I could turn the hands back. Its hands ticked on, oblivious to the fact that my time was running out.

Dr. Sen kept talking, but his words were drowned by the pounding in my ears.  I just sat there nodding like I understood, even though I didn’t. 

I think he said something about how the tumour was too advanced for surgery, about how treatment would only prolong the inevitable. Tumour. Advanced. Inoperable. Inevitable. It’s not going to change anything, he said. Treatment might buy me time, but I won’t survive.

I didn’t really hear him. The word inevitable only reverberated in my head until I couldn’t take it anymore.

Six months.

That’s all I have left.

I finally left his office. I didn’t even look back. The door swung open, and the sunlight hit me like a slap. The sky outside was so damn blue, it felt like a joke. The world was still moving. Birds chirped, children laughed, people went about their lives—laughing, arguing, texting—as if nothing had changed. 

For them, it hadn’t.

For me, everything had.

I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. Six months. That’s it. The numbers keep repeating in my head.

So, what am I supposed to do now? Lie in bed, counting down the days? No. If I’m going to die, I might as well live first.

I thought about telling Mom when I got home, but the words didn’t come. She was busy chopping vegetables in the kitchen, her hair tied up in that messy bun she always does when she’s focused. “How was the appointment?” she asked without looking up.

“Fine,” I said. Just fine.

I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell her everything. But the words wouldn’t come out. How do you say something like that? How do you break her heart when you’re barely holding yours together? She didn’t look up from the cutting board, didn’t notice the way I couldn’t meet her eyes. The knife kept slicing. I wanted to scream. But instead, I just stood there, pretending everything was fine.