Days Remaining: 23Bank Account: ₹300
After college
"I am not doing it," Elian said, crossing his arms.
"Do it," Lyra said, hovering over the manager's shoulder. "Look at the pay! That's ten cakes worth of money!"
They were standing in the back office of Clucky's Fried Chicken, a grease-filled establishment that smelled of oil and despair. The manager, a sweaty man named Bob, held out a bundle of yellow synthetic fur.
"It's simple," Bob grunted, chewing on a toothpick. "You put on the suit. You stand on the sidewalk. You dance. You point at the sign. ₹2,000 for the whole weekend. Cash."
Elian looked at the suit. It was a giant, neon-yellow chicken costume with a beak that looked permanently surprised.
"I have dignity," Elian muttered.
"You have an expiration date," Lyra whispered in his ear. "Dignity is for people with a future. You need cash for the Bungee Jump."
Elian closed his eyes. She was right. He needed money to die happy. And honestly, who cared? In 26 days, he would be a memory. This chicken suit would be a funny anecdote at his funeral.
"I'll take it," Elian sighed.
Ten minutes later, Elian was standing on the busiest street corner in the city, encased in three inches of sweaty foam.
He looked ridiculous. He looked like a giant, radioactive bird.
"You look..." Lyra floated around him, inspecting the beak. "Majestic. Truly. The yellow really brings out your eyes. Oh wait, I can't see your eyes."
"I hate you," Elian's voice was muffled from inside the beak.
"Less talking, more dancing!" Lyra commanded, floating up to sit on top of the traffic light. "Work it, Chicken Boy! Shake those tail feathers!"
Elian stood stiffly. People were walking by, staring. A group of teenagers pointed and laughed. Old Elian would have died of shame. Old Elian would have hidden in the bathroom. But New Elian was hot, sweaty, and realized something important: No one knew who was inside the suit. He was invisible. Just like he always wanted.
"Fine," Elian grumbled.
He raised a wing. He did a little shimmy. The teenagers laughed harder. Lyra booed. "Boring! Put some soul into it! Like this!"
Lyra did a mid-air backflip. Elian rolled his eyes inside the mask. He took a deep breath. He thought about Jason the bully. He thought about the roof. He started to jump. He flapped his wings. He did the moonwalk (badly). He did the "Gangnam Style" dance from ten years ago.
"Yes!" Lyra cheered, clapping. "Go! Go! Look at him go!"
Elian started laughing inside the suit. It was absurd. He was a dying boy dressed as a poultry product, dancing for strangers. And for the first time, he didn't feel judged. He felt free.
A little kid walked up and hugged his leg. Elian patted the kid's head with his wing. The kid's mom smiled and dropped a tip in his jar.
For four hours, Elian was the star of the sidewalk. He sweated buckets, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years.
The Kitchen
It was 2:00 AM. The house was asleep. The kitchen was a disaster zone.
Elian stood amidst a cloud of flour, holding a whisk like a weapon. On the counter sat the ₹500 note he had earned, tucked safely into a jar labeled "THE JUMP FUND."
"We could have bought a cake," Lyra whined from the top of the fridge. "A professional cake. With fondant. And those little silver balls."
"A bakery cake is ₹600," Elian whispered, squinting at a recipe on his phone. "Ingredients cost ₹100. That saves us ₹1900 for the jump. Do you want to jump off a bridge or not?"
"I want cake and death," Lyra grumbled. "But fine. Be frugal."
She pointed a spoon at him. "It says 'fold in the eggs.' How do you fold an egg? It's liquid. You can't fold liquid."
"I don't know!" Elian hissed, splashing batter onto the counter. "I'm mixing it!"
"You're assaulting it," Lyra corrected. "Move. Let the professional handle the commentary."
They were crossing off Item #2: Eat the Death Cake.
Forty minutes later, the oven dinged. The smell of warm sugar and cocoa filled the dark kitchen. It was the smell of childhood, of safety, of home. Elian pulled the pan out. The cake was... lopsided. It had a crater in the middle. It looked like a meteor had hit a brownie.
"It's ugly," Elian admitted.
"It's rustic," Lyra said, floating down. "Now, frost it. Hides the sins."
Elian slathered a tub of store-bought frosting over the disaster until it looked vaguely like a cake. He put two forks on the counter. "Plates?" he asked.
"Plates are for people with time," Lyra said. "We eat from the pan. It tastes better."
They sat on the kitchen floor, the warm pan between them, bathed in the dim yellow light of the oven hood. Elian took a bite. It was dense. It was rich. It was terrifyingly sweet. "Oh god," Elian groaned. "My teeth hurt."
Lyra took a bite. Her eyes rolled back. She let out a sound that was half-moan, half-giggle. "Oh, sweet glucose," she whispered. "This is it. This is the meaning of life. Why do you humans do anything else? Why do you go to war? Just eat cake."
She didn't eat delicately. She ate like she hadn't tasted sugar in eighty years, which she hadn't. She attacked the corner of the pan, getting frosting on her lip, humming a happy little tune.
Elian stopped eating. He watched her.
He watched the way she held the fork, awkwardly, like she was relearning how hands worked. He watched the way her nose crinkled when she hit a particularly sugary patch. He watched the way her hair, which usually floated in an ethereal wind, was currently tucked behind her ear, messy and normal.
She fits, Elian thought. The thought surprised him. His kitchen had always felt empty. His life had always felt like a room with too much space in it. But with her sitting there, occupying the space between the fridge and the stove, the room felt... full.
"You're staring again," Lyra said, talking with her mouth full.
Elian didn't look away this time. He felt bold. Maybe it was the sugar rush. "You have frosting," Elian said.
"Where?"
"Everywhere," he lied. "Mostly your cheek."
"Save it for later," she grinned, taking another bite. "So? How does it feel? Item #2 done."
"It feels... heavy," Elian said, rubbing his stomach. "I think I'm going to go into a coma."
"Good. Then I can reap you early."
Elian laughed. "You're obsessed with killing me."
"It's my job, nerd." She pointed her fork at him. "But... I gotta admit. You're making the job harder."
Elian's heart did that misstep thing again. "How?"
Lyra looked at the cake. She swirled her fork in the chocolate. "Usually, I just watch. I wait. It's boring. But this..." She gestured to the messy kitchen. "This is fun. The noodles. The chicken suit. The cake. You're actually... entertaining."
"Just entertaining?" Elian asked softly.
Lyra looked up. She met his eyes. The playfulness faded for a second. The air between them grew quiet. "You're okay, Elian," she whispered. "For a human."
It was a deflection. But Elian heard what was underneath it. I like being here.
"What's next?" Lyra asked, breaking the tension with a mouth full of frosting.
Elian looked at the list. He looked at the jar labeled "JUMP FUND." "Next," Elian said, "We need more money. We're only halfway to the jump."
"Does that mean..." Lyra gasped.
"Tomorrow," Elian grinned, "I'm going to be a Hot Dog."
Lyra cheered.
Elian looked at her lip. There really was a smudge of frosting there now. Without thinking, Elian reached out. He didn't touch her, he knew the rules, but he hovered his thumb just an inch from her face.
Lyra froze. She stopped chewing. She stared at his thumb, then at his eyes. She didn't pull away. She didn't phase through the wall. She stayed solid(ish), holding her breath.
"You missed a spot," Elian whispered.
The air crackled. It wasn't the cold Reaper air. It was static. It was electricity. For a second, Elian imagined what it would be like to close that inch gap. To wipe the chocolate away. To feel her skin without the freezing burn.
Then, the fridge compressor kicked on with a loud HUM. The spell broke.
Lyra jerked back, blinking rapidly. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, looking flustered. "I, I'm full," she announced, dropping her fork into the pan with a clang. "If I eat anymore, I'll sink through the floor."
She stood up, or floated up, retreating to the safety of the ceiling. "Clean up this mess, Cinderella," she called down, her voice a little too high, a little too fast. "I'm going to... go haunt the toaster. Bye."
She zipped out of the room.
Elian sat alone on the kitchen floor. The pan was half empty. The house was quiet again. But he was smiling.
He touched his own thumb, the one that had almost touched her. He realized he wasn't thinking about the 24 days left on his clock. He was thinking about tomorrow. He was wondering what else he could bake, just to see her make that face again.
He stood up and started washing the dishes. For a boy who was dying, he felt dangerously, recklessly alive.