Author note: Pls check out the prologue chapters before this, it helps the world-building a lot :)
*~Mirabelle's POV~*
"You have one year to live."
The paper trembled in my hand. My throat tightened, and my vision blurred until the ink ran together like weeping sores. Suddenly, I couldn't read. The seven basic words on the page were scrambled into an unrecognizable cipher.
My grip slackened. My bag hit the floor, and my life spilled out—files, makeup, pens, everything.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" the doctor asked, reaching out.
I slapped his hands away, my own fingers shaking uncontrollably. His face was a mask of practiced concern. I stumbled, my knees buckling, but he caught me before I hit the tile and guided me into a chair.
"Nurse, we need water here!" he called out.
I sat like a statue, my gaze locked on that paper. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My entire existence had been etched into those seven ugly words. How was this possible? I hadn't even lived yet. I hadn't truly loved. I was a twenty-year-old medical student with my whole career ahead of me. This wasn't just a diagnosis; this is life-shattering information.
The nurse appeared with a cup of water. I grabbed it, but instead of drinking, I shoved it aside and lunged for the doctor. I seized his white coat, bunching the fabric in my fists. The nurse staggered back, horrified.
"No!" I screamed into his face, my voice cracking. "This is impossible! It's a mistake! What kind of hospital is this?"
They tried to calm me, their voices a low, steady hum that only fueled my rage.
"Miss Wayne, please," the doctor said softly. "You're a medical student. You understand how this works. You've seen the scans." He paused, his eyes heavy. "The cancer is terminal."
I recoiled as if he'd struck me. I stepped back, my heel crunching on the glass of the water cup I'd knocked over. A shard cut my foot, but I felt nothing. The pain in my head was far sharper.
I let out a cruel, jagged laugh. "Terminal? A lie. You're lying."
But I knew. Even through the denial, the medical terms flashed in my mind like a death sentence. There was no cure. This was the worst-case scenario.
"But I'm healthy," I whispered, my voice small now. "I have no symptoms. Look at me. I feel fine. No fever, no headaches... I just came in for a routine checkup. How can you tell me I'm dying?"
"Cancer doesn't always wait for symptoms to show its face," the doctor said. "I know it's too much to process right now, Miss Mirabel. I'll give you a moment."
The rest of his words faded into nothing.
A year? 12 months?
I blinked, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.
"I have a year to live?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
I needed him to say no… I needed him to take it back.
He paused at the door, then turned.
"A year?" I asked. "Do I really only have one year?"
The doctor paused at the door and looked back, his expression grim. "Approximately. I'm so sorry."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the sterile silence. I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
The hospital's rhythmic beeping and the medicinal stench of the hallways made me nauseous. Ignoring the sting in my foot, I struggled into my shoes and fled the building. I shouldn't have come. I knew I shouldn't have. It was my grandmother who had insisted; she was the one who forced the monthly checkups.
"This is a nightmare," I hissed, collapsing into the driver's seat of my car.
I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. The horn blared, a long, piercing wail that drew stares from passersby. I didn't care. Why me? I didn't deserve this. I was all my grandmother had left. After losing both my parents in that accident, she had poured everything she had into raising me. She had sacrificed her golden years, working herself to the bone. And this was how I repaid her? By dying? She was going to lose her daughter and her granddaughter in a single lifetime.
I hit the wheel again, the rage boiling over. To hell with that doctor! To hell with those results. I am not dying.
My phone buzzed—a call from Grandma. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with fresh tears, before I angrily switched the device off. I couldn't face her. She would hear the truth in my voice the second I said "hello."
I threw the car into gear and tore out of the parking lot, driving aimlessly. I sped blindly, nearly clipping a sedan at a junction. I slammed on the brakes, my chest heaving.
"Calm down, Mirabel," I muttered, a sick, dry laugh escaping my throat. "Do you want to kill yourself before the cancer does?"
The laugh grew until it wasn't funny anymore. A cold, heavy reality settled over me as I stared at the road ahead. Then, I noticed it—a black car in the rearview mirror. It had been behind me since I left the hospital. Was it following me?
I laughed again. What did it matter? If it were a kidnapper, let them come. I was a dead woman walking anyway. What was the point of fear?
The car pulled into the lane beside me, slowing down. My eyes followed it. The driver was a shadow, a figure wearing a mask. Who the hell wears a mask while driving? I thought, but the curiosity was fleeting.
My attention drifted to a billboard across the street. A commercial showed a couple kissing passionately while their children playfully covered their eyes. A "perfect" family. To anyone else, it was sweet. To me, it was a ghost of a life I'd never have. No husband, no children, no growing old. My heart wrenched for the hundredth time.
I looked around for the test results, realizing I'd left them at the hospital. Good. If the papers weren't here, maybe it wasn't real.
I rested my head on my palms, letting the tears fall until my eyes burned and my head throbbed with an insane pressure. The exhaustion was a physical weight, dragging my eyelids down. As my vision began to fade into darkness, I saw the black car pull over. The masked man stepped out, moving toward me.
What the hell? I would jump out of my car but my body was too weak, so I just passed out.