Zara's POV
If my life were a movie, this would be the part where the camera zooms in on the sad girl in bed, pale and tragic, staring wistfully out the window as the wind plays with her curtains.
Too bad my life is not that movie like. I'm just dying. And mildly annoyed about it.
Stage IV non-small cell lung cancer. That's what the doctors said. The same illness that took my mom five years ago. I used to think it was poetic too, mother and daughter sharing the same ending, but now it just feels repetitive. Like life couldn't be bothered to write me a new script so it just gave me my mother's.
I'm Zara Bloom, 26, a certified nerd and professional daydreamer. I practically live alone in my little one-bedroom apartment in New York city. Well, technically, my father still exists. He's remarried, living his best life in California with his new family. Sends me money once in a while, though. You know, guilt allowance.
I don't blame him, really. If I were him, I'd probably want to get away from me too.
But don't feel sorry for me, I'm fine. Really.
I mean, dying sucks. But I've made peace with it. There are worse things. Like being forced to socialize or wear bras.
My phone buzzed. I tapped the screen and opened the new email from work.
Subject: Termination Notice
"Dear Zara, due to your continued absence and health complications, we regret to inform you... blah blah blah, effective immediately."
I chuckled and dropped the phone on the nightstand.
"Well, guess I won't be dying on company time after all."
No shock. Just a shrug. My boss had the personality of a stale biscuit, anyway. And it's not like I was going to be working much longer. Might as well spend my remaining days doing what I love
Escaping into fictional worlds where hot men fall in love with hot messes like me.
I turned to look at my pride and joy, a towering bookshelf that took up half the wall. Rows and rows of colorful spines of books.
My babies.
I stood, slowly, my joints stiff and body sluggish. Every movement reminded me that time was ticking. But I wasn't going to waste it being miserable. Not when rom-com smut existed.
I ran my fingers along the familiar titles until I landed on "To Love Him, Always". Dog-eared and smudged with hot chocolate stains. I'd read it, what? Eight times? Nine? Who was counting?
I climbed back into bed with a sigh and flipped open to Chapter One, like reuniting with an old lover.
The Plot of the book? It was iconic.
The heroine, Celeste Monroe, was everything I'd ever wanted to be. Soft but strong. Gorgeous, of course. The kind of woman who wore heels and still managed to look innocent while committing emotional arson. And the way all four of the male leads fell for her? Heart fluttering.
Especially Rafael Stone, the grumpy billionaire CEO with eyes like a storm and a jawline sharp enough to cut through generational trauma. I was so ready to die on that hill.
Then there was Luca Moretti, the mafia don who made murder look like foreplay.
Adrian Ward, the unhinged heir who was practically tattooed in red flags and somehow made obsession hot.
And Leo Saintclair, the tortured artist who painted her like she was a divine revelation.
And what did Celeste do?
She chose only one. Just Rafael Stone
Girl, be serious.
If I were her? I'd have picked all four. Share the love. Break the rules. Eat the cake.
But the one character I absolutely despised?
Lana Damaris. The villain.
Rich, rude, and radiating the kind of toxic energy that made you want to end her yourself.
She spent the whole book ruining lives, burning bridges, and trying to tear Celeste down
And the worst part? She didn't even get what she deserved.
Sure, she died in the end, but it was too clean. Too painless.
She caused chaos the whole damn book, and then boom, dead. Like some dramatic soap opera exit without the satisfying scream.
If I'd written it, she'd have suffered. Slowly. Epically.
Just as I flipped to the next page of the book, my phone beeped.
Reminder: Doctor's Appointment 3:30 PM.
I groaned dramatically and slapped the book over my face.
Time to get poked, prodded, and told how many days I have left again. Yay.
I sighed and peeled the book away, letting my eyes wander one last time across my shelf of alternate universes.
"I wish I could live the lives of the female leads and get hot men fight over me for once." I said, grinning lazily
I slid off the bed and grabbed my oversized hoodie. Another day in reality, another reminder that I'm not the heroine in any story, just the girl watching from the sidelines.
....
The cab ride to the hospital was... awkward, like most things in my life lately.
The driver kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror, probably wondering if I was high or about to die in his back seat. I wasn't offended. With the oversized hoodie, sunken cheeks, and the faint wheeze in my breath, I looked like a ghost running errands.
The city outside the window was alive in all the ways I wasn't, New York never stopped moving, never quieted down for anyone. Yellow cabs honking. Sirens wailing in the distance. Tourists snapping pictures of a Starbucks like it was a landmark. A man in a SpiderMan costume danced on the sidewalk like rent depended on it. It probably did.
I tried to soak it in.
The chaos. The color. The rhythm.
I was running out of chances to feel it all.
The hospital entrance loomed. I paid the driver and offered a small smile. He mumbled something in return and sped off. Probably relieved.
Inside, the process was clockwork, check-in, bloodwork, waiting room. The antiseptic sting in the air was familiar. Too familiar. Hospitals always smelled like grief to me. The kind that's polite and clinical.
Eventually, I was led into Dr. Cohen's office.
She was tall, sharp-featured, and dressed in that efficient elegance New York doctors seem to be born with. Her dark curls were pulled back tightly, and her glasses sat at the bridge of her nose like they had a mortgage there.
She didn't smile this time. Not even a forced one.
She reviewed my chart in silence for what felt like an hour. I stared at the "Hang in there" motivational poster on the wall behind her. The cat dangling from a tree branch. Ironic, considering my branch had already snapped.
Finally, she spoke.
"Zara... the latest scans show the cancer's progressed significantly."
Non-small cell lung cancer. Stage IV. A mouthful that sounded almost delicate until you realized it meant death on a deadline.
"It's moving fast," she added. "Too fast. If it keeps progressing at this rate… we may be looking at days for you. Not weeks."
My heart didn't race. My hands didn't shake. I just blinked.
"Okay," I said.
She paused, clearly expecting more. A breakdown maybe. Some tears. But I'd already done all that months ago, when I first got the news. Now, I was just… tired.
"I'd like to admit you, get you into in-patient care," she said gently. "We can keep you comfortable, manage the pain, monitor everything closely."
"No."
She frowned. "Zara..."
"I watched my mom die in a hospital bed," I said, my voice calm. "Alone. Hooked to wires. Surrounded by machines. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't comforting. I won't go out like that."
"But..."
"I appreciate everything you've done," I added, softening. "You've been incredible. But if I'm going to die, I want it to be in my own bed. With my books. My escape."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded, defeated.
"At least let us send a home nurse..."
"I'll think about it," I lied, standing up and pulling my hoodie over my head again.
"I hope you find peace, Zara," she said.
I smiled. "Me too."
The wind slapped my face the moment I stepped outside.
The sun was shining too brightly for news like that. New Yorkers buzzed past me with coffee cups and loud conversations. Life was still happening, loud, unapologetic, endless.
I crossed Madison Avenue slowly, hoodie pulled tight, headphones in, not even playing anything. Just muting the world.
Days left.
That's what I had now.
Days to breathe.
Days to read.
Days to fantasize about men who didn't exist but somehow made me feel more alive than the real ones ever could.
I pictured my shelf. My novels. To Love Him, Always. I was going to continue it again tonight. The romance, the smut, the drama, I wanted to disappear into it until my body gave out.
I smiled faintly, consumed by the thought.
Then, the sound of screeching tires yanked me back to reality.
I had stepped into the street.
The light was red.
A horn blared.
I turned just in time to see the black sedan speeding toward me.
Too late.
Impact.
Pain bloomed. Then everything went dark.
.....
The darkness was thick at first. Cold. Heavy. Like someone had wrapped me in velvet and pushed me into the bottom of a lake.
I floated there for what felt like years, or maybe seconds. It was impossible to tell.
But then.... something shifted.
The weight lifted.
The darkness began to melt, like black ink dripping away from my skin. My lungs… they didn't burn anymore. I breathed in deeply, sharply, snd it didn't feel like I was drowning in air.
Wait. I could breathe.
And not the raspy, cancer choked kind. A full, open lunged, life-crashing-back-into-me kind.
My eyes blinked open, slow and cautious.
I blinked.
Once. Twice.
This… wasn't my room.
The air smelled like money and imported perfume, and the soft hum of city traffic echoed far below me. I sat in a sleek leather chair behind an impossibly large glass desk. Floor to ceiling windows cast golden light across the pristine space, illuminating shelves of rare books, framed art, and a towering orchid too perfect to be real.
What the hell?
I looked down at myself, tailored black pencil skirt, silk blouse that clung to curves I did not own, blood red nails long and sharp enough to draw blood. And these heels? Tall enough to send me straight to the ER if I moved too fast.
My heart thundered.
Then the desk phone rang.
I stared at it, half expecting it to stop. When it didn't, I reached out slowly, hand trembling.
"Hello?" I said. I was taken aback by my own voice. It was.... different.
The voice that answered was low. Male. Cold. Confident.
"It's done, Miss Damaris," he said. "We just hit Celeste Monroe, middle of the road, clean hit, looks like an accident. Just like you wanted. I'm sure the bitch won't make it."
The phone slipped from my hand and crashed onto the glossy desk.
Celeste Monroe?
No. No, no, no.
That's the heroine from To Love Him, Always. The sweet, perfect female lead.
And Miss Damaris?
My blood turned to ice.
I rushed to the mirror mounted behind the desk, and there she was.
Lana freaking Damaris.
The villainess I hated with every fiber of my being. The woman I swore should've suffered more before she died at the end of the book.
Now?
I was her.
What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?