Chapter 2

After the party, Ethan drove Zoey home. I took a cab back to that empty place I'm supposed to call home.

The moment I stepped inside, I bolted for the bathroom and collapsed over the toilet, retching violently.

My stomach churned like a washing machine. What came up wasn't just the food I'd forced down earlier—there were dark red streaks mixed in.

Pain tore through my abdomen in random, vicious waves. Cold sweat soaked through the back of my dress.

I curled up on the freezing tile floor, hands trembling as I fished painkillers from my pocket. Two pills, swallowed dry. I barely registered the bitter taste.

The medication took its sweet time kicking in. The pain kept going.

I closed my eyes and thought back to that appointment three months ago.

"Ms. Scott, your endoscopy results are in."

The doctor adjusted his glasses, expression grave. "It's gastric cancer. Stage four. It's already metastasized to your liver and lymph nodes."

I sat in that sterile office, fingers crushing the report, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears.

"How long do I have?" I asked.

"With aggressive treatment, maybe six months to a year. Without treatment..."

He paused. "Three months. At most."

Three months.

Now it's been two months and seventeen days.

I didn't choose treatment.

First, I couldn't afford it—Ethan gave me an allowance, sure, but nowhere near enough for targeted therapy and chemo.

Second, what was the point?

When you're unloved and unwanted, does it really matter if you stick around a few extra days?

The painkillers finally worked their magic. The agony dulled to a manageable throb.

I braced myself against the sink and stood, staring at the ghost in the mirror.

Twenty-five years old. Supposed to be in my prime. Instead, I looked like death warmed over.

My phone rang. The care facility.

"Ms. Scott, your mother's having a rough night. She keeps calling for you. Can you come by?"

"I'm on my way."

I hung up, peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes, and rushed out the door.

The care facility was tomb-quiet at this hour, only a few night lights glowing in the hallways.

I pushed open my mother's door. She was lying there, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Mom."

I walked over and took her skeletal hand in mine.

She turned her head slowly, cloudy eyes studying me for a long moment. Then her face broke into a smile.

"Emily... my Emily's home..."

"Yeah, Mom. I'm home."

My throat tightened. I pressed my face against her palm.

Mom has Alzheimer's. Most days, she doesn't recognize anyone—not even me.

But sometimes, in rare moments of clarity like this, she'd call me by my name and say, "My Emily's home."

"Emily... cold..." Mom suddenly murmured, voice slurred. "So cold here... Mommy's cold..."

I quickly tucked the blanket around her and turned up the heat.

"Better now?"

No answer. Her eyes had already drifted shut, breathing slow and steady.

I sat by her bedside for a long time, until a nurse came to tell me visiting hours were over.

By the time I left the facility, a light rain had started.

I stood under the overhang, watching droplets glitter under the streetlights, and suddenly remembered another rainy night from years ago.

I was sixteen. Ethan was eighteen.

His father had beaten him bloody. He'd hidden in an alley, letting the rain soak him through.

I found him. Held an umbrella over both of us. Stood with him all night in that downpour.

"Emily," he'd said, voice raw. "If I ever lost everything... would you still stay?"

"Always," I answered without hesitation. "Ethan, no matter what happens to you, I'll be right here."

He turned to look at me then. Through the rain, his eyes burned bright.

In that moment, I thought I saw something different in them.

Later, I realized it was just wishful thinking.

He never needed me. He just needed a shadow—someone who wouldn't leave when things got ugly.

Once he had power, he went chasing after the moon.

And me? I was just that insignificant shadow. Not even worth remembering.