Rachael Lippincott

It’s right here, close enough to touch. But I can’t. I didn’t know it was possible to want something so bad you could feel it in your arms and your legs and in every breath you take.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

The red ribbon in her hair. The rose tucked behind her ear. The way she keeps looking at me.

What’s the point? I’ll die or they will, and this cycle of people dying and people grieving will just continue.

Poe pushed everyone away so he wouldn’t hurt them, but it didn’t make a bit of difference. Michael is still sitting on his bed, crushed, the weeks they could have had together spiraling through his head. Whether I die now or ten years from now, my parents will be crushed. And all I’ll have done is make myself miserable focusing on a few extra breaths.

I laugh, making a snow angel too, my whole body cold from the snow, but warm from the moment.

But I look across the pond at Will again, the boy I love, who has B. cepacia and will never get the opportunity in front of me.

I have to choose now.

New lungs?

Or Will?

I look up at him and he smiles at me so wide that it’s not even a contest.

Will was right. Do I want to spend all my time left swimming upstream?

I push off him and try to spin, throwing my arms out, my face turned toward the starry sky. Twirling around and around on the slick ice, I hear his voice.

“God, I love you.”

“You scare me, Stella.”

I look up at him, frowning. “What? Why?”

He looks into my eyes, his voice serious. “You make me want a life I can’t have.”