Day 2
Life feels different when you know it's running out. Every moment feels more vivid, more urgent like the universe is demanding you pay attention to its fleeting beauty.
This morning, I dyed my hair pink.
The box of dye had been collecting dust under my bed for years, unopened with all the other "maybe someday" dreams. It's funny how we keep things like that, as if we're saving them for the perfect moment. Turns out, "perfect moments" don't wait for you - they just pass you by while you're busy being practical.
I've always wanted to do it, but Mom used to say, "It's impractical." That was her go-to word for everything I wanted but didn't need. "It's impractical, sweetie. What about work? What about first impressions?" Like someone was going to take one look at my hair and declare me unfit for life or it was some sort of rebellion for my teenage self and even for a 23 year old adult like me.
Well, guess what? Life's impractical.
Dad wasn't any better. When I walked into the kitchen with damp pink strands framing my face, he looked at me like I'd just announced I was running off to join the circus. "You look… irresponsible," he said, sipping his tea.
And you know what? For the first time, I agreed with him. Because irresponsible is exactly what I'm going for.
The dye smelled awful, and I got more of it on the bathroom counter than on my hair, but when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself. My reflection stared back, bright and bold, like someone who wasn't afraid of anything. For a moment, I felt… powerful.
Mom didn't yell like I thought she would. She just stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then she said, "Are you sure you're okay?"
It caught me off guard. Not the question, but the way she asked it - soft, almost afraid of the answer.
I grinned, wide and toothy. "Yep. Never better."
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she let it go. She always does these days. I think part of her is too tired to argue with me anymore.
Later, I went to the park. There's this old bench near the lake where I used to sit as a kid, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks. It's weathered now, the paint peeling, but it felt like those ancient relics which even though worn out you love to admire - a piece of my past untouched by the chaos of my present.
When I was little, Dad used to bring me here with a bag of stale bread for the ducks. He'd make up stories about them - like how one was a cursed prince, stuck in his feathery form until he found true love. Another was a secret agent, spying on the humans for the "Duck Intelligence Agency."
I used to believe him. I used to believe in a lot of things.
Today, there weren't any breadcrumbs, and Dad wasn't with me. Just me, sitting on the bench, watching the ducks paddle lazily in the water. The lake shimmered under the sunlight, and for a moment, I let myself pretend I wasn't counting down days.
A man walked by with a golden retriever, its fur shining in the sunlight. The dog bounded toward me, tail wagging furiously, and sniffed at my shoes.
"Friendly one, isn't he?" I said, crouching to pet him.
The man smiled. "That's Max. He loves meeting new people."
Max sniffed at my shoes, then decided I was acceptable and licked my hand. His tongue was warm and rough, and I laughed despite myself. And for a moment, everything felt normal. Just a girl and a dog on a sunny day. No tumours, no ticking clock.
Max made me forget, even if it was only for a little while.
And for the first time, I realised that forgetting might be the closest thing to peace I'm going to get.