By Jazmine Perez

September 17, 2008 — 9:02 p.m. 

Death comes to him like this: dressed in long dark shorts and a plain white shirt, fiddling with the sleeve of a faded green jacket slung around her shoulders. She looks like any other teenager he could’ve come across passing the street, with the way the short curls of dark hair frame the softness of her face, the brightness in her eyes. A young girl standing at the foot of his hospital bed. The only pop of color between the empty walls and artificial plants trying to bring life into a room that just isn’t there. Not in their plastic leaves. Not in him. Not in the heart monitor beeping faintly by his side. 

But this girl-like being—Death—she radiates with it. 

It stirs the room like a breath of fresh air when she steps forward, shows through her fingers as she waves politely, voice almost sheepish. 

“I guess you’ve been expecting me already.” 

He can’t help but laugh at that, the sound hollow coming from his dry throat. He sits up straighter in the uncomfortable hospital gown, ignoring the ache in his shoulders from the movement. 

“…It was about time.” 

8:28 p.m. 

The coffee shop is anything but quiet, conversations drifting through the atmosphere along with the scent of steamed milk and baked bread. They’ve taken a table beside one of the windows, the bustling crowd outside still visible and lively even at night. He takes another sip from the cup of cortado in his hands, careful not to spill anything on his clothes. The taste is stronger than he remembered, yet sweeter than he expected it to. It’s also a little too hot to

drink yet—if the twinge of a burn on his tongue means anything—but that does little to deter him. 

He takes another sip. 

Caffeine was one of the first things to go when the illness came back. They said it could be dangerous to his heart, that it was better to take precaution as much as possible. He’d switched to taking Adderall to keep himself awake for studying after that, despite his friends’ worried protests. 

But then the illness got worse, and suddenly there was no studying to be done at all. Across the small table Death busies herself with a blueberry scone, looking around curiously at the other people in the shop. She looks human like this, bathed by the warm glow of the hanging lights, and he knows for certain that to any passerby they look like just another pair of friends, or siblings having coffee together after a busy day. 

She notices his gaze, meeting his eyes as she finishes the rest of the scone. “I chose to have this form, if you’re wondering. It’s more comfortable. And it scares them a lot less too.” 

“Did anyone else ever question why or..?” 

“Not really, no. They’re usually more concerned about other things.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

She laughs, and he thinks that maybe they could have been. 

The cortado burns his tongue again the more he drinks. But it tastes of first term and familiar laughs and he finishes the cup anyway. 

8:13 p.m. 

The walk to the beach is quiet, autumn wind cold enough that he shivers through his already thick beige coat and black turtleneck. It’s ridiculously fancy, something he would’ve never imagined himself ever wearing, especially not like this. But it works. He’d worried that he had to go outside dressed in the hospital gown, before he remembered the outfit folded neatly

atop the room’s desk. It’s something his older brother had bought for him earlier today, obviously proud of himself that it was humorous. 

“For when you get discharged tomorrow. We’re going somewhere fancy, so you better look the part, yeah?” 

Death walks beside him, humming to herself as she watches the water glimmer softly from the reflection of the city lights. It’s excruciatingly serene. Peaceful. Things that he never quite felt again after being confined to white walls and beeping machines. When the breeze starts to get stronger, Death slowly begins to pick up her pace too, holding out her arms as she greets the oncoming wind. 

“Come on!” She turns to him with a grin. “First one to reach the end wins!” He can’t remember ever moving this much for a long, long time. 

The ache in his bones had gone away now, his breathing coming easier than it had ever been in years as he races with the breeze, ruffling his hair and making his coat sway in the wind. Above them the night sky stretches with glittering stars clearer than they have ever appeared, and his lungs burn pleasantly with the effort to keep moving forward. 

Alive, alive, alive. 

9:02 p.m. 

“Do you have any unfinished business to settle?” Death asks him. 

The young man toys absentmindedly with the hospital blanket, and thinks of the hesitance in the doctor’s voice talking to him before his treatment earlier today. It would be his final one for the time being before he leaves tomorrow, but they had to keep monitoring him anyway. 

“Just to see how much you’re getting better.” 

But I’m not getting better. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why I’m here? 

He accepted it long ago. Even before the heart monitor had to be installed, before they inserted enough needles to make his skin crawl or take medication that just made him weaker

and weaker. He accepted it enough to refuse continuing treatment at one point. But his mother had cried, and his father had been angry. Stern. Just enough to mask desperation. That he was going to get better if it’s the last thing he ever did. 

He thinks of a city he’ll never have a chance to explore, of the fireworks display he heard outside earlier. 

“It’s not like I’ll be able to finish any of it right now, can’t I?” He murmurs dryly. And Death brightens, something akin to excitement flickering over her face. “Actually, I think you just might.” 

8:22 p.m. 

It’s funny, really. Every day he used to pass by this museum, between lectures and rush hour shifts, and every day he promised to himself that he’ll go there once the timing is right, that it would be a significant thing. Back when he was so sure that his condition wouldn’t take him again. 

Well, he supposes that his final hours are equally significant. 

They’re greeted by patterned marble flooring, white walls lined with golden-framed paintings, stone statues and artifacts displayed. It’s exactly how he expected it to look, yet it’s everything he’s ever dreamed of. He hears the echoes of his own footsteps as he stands in front of all the paintings, of all the art he’s always loved, fighting back waves of emotion he doesn’t want to put into words. His friends had always teased him about his own work being displayed on these walls one day, and he never had the heart to admit how much he hoped for it. 

Maybe—in some other life—they stood here doing just that. 

Discussing the pieces, chatting aimlessly about what to do next. They could stay here for as long as they want without worrying if it would be too much for him, if he wouldn’t exhaust himself being outside this long. 

They would have all the time in the world.

But right now he is here, and Death stands beside him, gazing curiously at the artworks herself. She looks entirely fascinated, hand slightly raised as if stopping herself from touching the canvas. But her stare is different, carrying the weight of a strange sense of longing, and an even stranger sense of acceptance. 

He shrugs, meeting her gaze. 

“What do you think of them?” 

And the museum—vast yet nearly empty—grows lively with the sound of their voices. 

8:47 p.m. 

“The fireworks should be starting by now, right?” 

“Mhm, in a few minutes as always.” 

The night breeze is familiar against his skin now, soft and nearly comforting as they make their way back from the park. He dusts off breadcrumbs left from feeding the geese by the pond, Death walking beside him again with her hands in her pockets. “And then I have to be back at my room after.” He adds. “What next?” 

“And then, well…” She slows down, voice growing quiet. 

“Then it’s time for you to go.” 

It’s only when those words are spoken that the finality of it all hits him. 

He’s been aware of it from the beginning, but now, now it’s here. Just as he had always expected—sometimes even hoped for in the worst of days. There are no more lines to tiptoe on, no cliff to hang at the edge off. 

But there’s still unfinished paintings in his apartment. The stray cat around the train station he never saw again before he got admitted. There’s still lunch with his family after he gets discharged tomorrow because he’ll finally be home after so long. The cafe he can visit with his friends again because he’ll finally be able to have caffeine. Their graduations that he can’t be a part of anymore but he promised to go to anyway.

He promised. 

There’s still tomorrow. 

“Can’t I—can’t I have a little more time?” 

Death shakes her head, smiling so, so sadly at him. 

8:51 p.m. 

“Right. Right, of course.” His voice strains, something in his gut twisting painfully at the thought. Emotions too great to name flaying him open. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that, I—” 

The first sob that escapes him is quiet. A pitiful sound breaking the silence of the night that he tries to muffle with his hand. It does nothing to stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks, from the shivers that racks through his body as he curls in on himself. He thought he would be ready. He was so sure that he was ready. But now the idea of it all hurts, and the pain in his lungs does nothing to stop him from crying. It does nothing to stop him as he grieves and grieves and grieves—because what else is there left to do but mourn? 

Death places a hand on his back, her presence steady and comforting. Warm, despite all that it represents. Despite the fear it leaves lingering in his chest. 

“It’s alright. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

9:02 p.m. 

“I can give you an hour.” Death says. 

“An hour before this very moment, and I can repeat that hour as much as I like. You can do what you want by then, and until you’re ready—that hour will begin again. What do you think?”

8:53 p.m. 

The sky is a song of color and light above them, glowing so brightly despite the darkness surrounding it. 

Her voice is gentle. Kind. 

“Do you want to move closer so we can see them better?” 

He thinks of four blank walls and artificial plants, the familiar laughs echoing through them. The creak of the hospital bed every time arms come to wrap around him. A room that was never really lifeless as he remembers. 

“No, this is enough.” 

September 17, 2008 — 9:02 p.m. 

A young man sits up on his hospital bed and stares at the face of Death. 

She waves at him, polite as ever—holding out a hand as she calls his name. 

He takes it.

–

Jazmine Perez is a seventeen-year-old Filipino writer and aspiring author who has previously written for both student publications and journalism competitions. She enjoys embroidery, listening to horror podcasts, and finding music to match the stories she’s made and read about. She also considers herself a professional at revenge bedtime procrastination.