That night, back at Camila's apartment, the fairy lights still glowed softly over the half-eaten cake, but the room felt colder. I sat curled on the couch in my pink dress—the one that fluttered like butterfly wings when I moved—tears slipping down my cheeks faster than I could wipe them. The girls surrounded me like a shield: Isabella on one side, arms tight around my shoulders; Camila kneeling in front, holding both my hands; Aveline and Ayla close behind, stroking my hair, murmuring sorrys that weren't really theirs to say.
"We thought he was different," Camila whispered, voice cracking. "We thought… God, Blossom, we're so sorry. This is our fault. We pushed too hard."
Isabella shook her head fiercely. "No. It's not on us. It's on him. Eliot's just a coward hiding behind that calm, handsome face. All those long fingers and gentle words—mean nothing if he's scared of a little truth. Cancer isn't contagious. He's small-minded. We should've seen it."
Ayla nodded, jaw tight. "We still have Anderson. He's solid. Fit, healthy, body-aware—he won't think like that. His mind isn't tiny. He'll understand it's safe, doctor-cleared, gentle. He'll want to help you feel good."
I shook my head, sobs catching in my throat. The dress felt ridiculous now—pretty fabric on a girl who was falling apart. "No… please. I don't want to trouble anyone else. I'm… I'm ill-fated. Bad luck follows me. Mom's in prison because of what Dad did to her, Nana and Grandpa are losing everything for me, and now even Eliot ran. What if I bring bad to Anderson too? What if he doesn't want me either? I'm sick. I'm dying. Who would want to… touch that?"
Camila pulled me into her chest, rocking me like I was a child. "Stop. You are not bad luck. You are the kindest, sweetest person we know. You deserve to feel wanted. Loved. Even for one night. Anderson will see that. We promise."
They held me until the crying slowed to hiccups, until my eyes burned and my dress was damp with tears.
They didn't leave that night. We stayed in Camila's apartment. I ended up in the guest bedroom with Isabella. She fell asleep first, sprawled like a starfish, mouth open, snoring softly in little beastly puffs. I watched her for a minute, envying how easy sleep came to her.
Ayla and Aveline took the other bedroom. When I got up later to use the bathroom—quiet, barefoot, careful not to wake anyone—I passed the living room.
Camila and Ethan were asleep on the pull-out couch. Fully clothed, yes, but pressed together so tightly there was no space between them. Ethan's chest to her back, arm draped over her waist, hand resting naturally on her chest. Her ass tucked perfectly against his hips, his breath stirring her hair. It was intimate — the deep, unconscious habit of two people who belonged to each other every night.
I froze in the doorway, a sharp, ugly jealousy twisting in my gut.
I hated myself for feeling it. They looked so safe, so complete.
I'd never had that. Never would.
I hated the jealousy I was feeling . Hated how it twisted in my chest when I should've been happy for them.
I turned away fast, cheeks burning with shame, and slipped into the bathroom.
Splashed cold water on my face. Told myself it wasn't fair to feel this way. They deserved this. I didn't deserve to begrudge it.
When I came back I crawled in beside Isabella again, pulling the blanket high, pretending the ache in my chest was only the tumor.
Morning came too soon.
Ayla was already up, phone in hand. "I'm going to get Anderson. Right now. We're not letting last night be the end. You deserve happiness, Blossom. And I will bring that for you."
She left before I could protest.
Anderson arrived near noon. Tall, broad, calm as ever in a plain black t-shirt that showed the lines of his shoulders and arms. He smiled when he saw me—small, steady—and didn't comment on the red-rimmed eyes or the way I looked broken.
The girls led him to the bedroom without fanfare. I stayed in the living room, heart thudding, picking at a thread on the couch.
The door to the bedroom clicked shut behind Anderson, but the voices carried anyway—low at first, then sharper, rawer, no sugarcoating left. I stayed frozen on the couch, knees pulled to my chest. I could hear some words if not all.
Aveline started, calm but blunt.
"Look, Anderson. Blossom's got advanced cardiac angiosarcoma. Tumor's coiled around her heart, already metastasized to the lungs. Prognosis is one month, tops. She's never been with anyone. Not even a real kiss. She wants one gentle sex before she dies. That's it. Safe, slow, no rough stuff. Doctor cleared low-exertion intimacy if vitals stay stable. We'll be right outside. Condoms, lube, her meds on the nightstand. You just have to be careful with her heart rate and stop the second she says."
Silence. Heavy.
Camila jumped in, voice tight.
"She picked you because you're steady. Body-aware. You check in during everything—'Is this okay?' 'Want to slow down?' That's what she needs. Someone who won't hurt her. Someone who'll make her feel wanted instead of like a fucking corpse waiting to happen."
Anderson exhaled long and slow.
"I… like her. The rooftop felt real. She's sweet. But I can't manage a cancer patient like that. Her heart's barely hanging on. One wrong thrust, one spike in adrenaline, and she could code right there under me. I'm not doing that. I'm not gonna be the guy who fucks a dying girl so hard her heart stops and then I'm the asshole who killed her."
Ayla's voice cracked—betrayed, furious.
"It's not like that. It's gentle. Missionary, slow, her on top if she wants control. We've got the monitor app linked to her watch. We'll burst in if anything goes off. You're not gonna kill her. You're gonna give her the only good thing she's ever asked for."
He laughed once—short, bitter.
"You really think that? I pin her down even a little and her chest seizes? Or she comes too hard and her heart fibrillates? I don't want that blood on my hands. I don't want cops or doctors or her family looking at me like I murdered her with my dick. I'm sorry. I can sit with her, hold her hand, talk her through the night. But I'm not fucking her. Not when she's this fragile. It's not worth the risk—to her or to me."
Isabella's tone went venomous.
"So you're scared she'll die on your cock and ruin your perfect trainer rep? That's what this is? You're fine holding her while she cries, but god forbid your dick gets involved?"
"I'm scared she'll die because of me," he shot back, quieter now. "And yeah, I'm scared of the fallout too. I'm human. I'm not a saint. I'm not doing this."
Aveline sighed, defeated.
"Okay. That's your answer. Thanks for coming."
Footsteps. The door opened.
Anderson stepped out. Our eyes met for half a second—his guilty, mine empty. He looked away fast, grabbed his keys from the coffee table, and walked out without another word. The front door closed softly behind him.
The room went dead quiet.
It hurt. A dull, heavy ache. But not like with Eliot. This time I'd been braced for it, quiet, expecting the no. I sat there numb, staring at the balloons still floating from last night.
The girls came back in waves. Isabella dropped beside me first, hugging tight. Camila knelt, tears in her eyes. Aveline stood frozen, fists clenched. Ayla returned last, looking like she'd been punched.
"We failed you," Ayla whispered. "We tried so hard and… we couldn't give you this one thing."
I shook my head, voice small. "It's not your fault. It's just… me. I guess I'm really stupid for thinking about sex in dying bed."
They gathered around again—hugs, soft words, promises they'd keep trying, keep fighting for me. But the apartment felt quieter now. The fairy lights looked tired.
And somewhere deep inside, the countdown beeped louder again.