As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of deep purples and fiery oranges. One by one, the stars emerged, glistening like scattered diamonds against the darkening expanse. In a solitary hospital room, a young man let out a quiet sigh, his gaze fixed on the celestial display outside his window.
For someone whose days were numbered, he made it a point to cherish the small wonders life still had to offer. The twinkling stars, the distant echoes of laughter drifting from the hospital courtyard, even the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside him—each sound and sight became a treasure, a reminder that he was still here.
He had been only twenty when doctors diagnosed him with a rare, incurable disease—one that would gradually drain him of his vitality. The first three years passed with relative normalcy; he could still go about his daily life, albeit with increasing difficulty. At first, it was mere shortness of breath, then dull aches that came and went like fleeting shadows. But by the fourth year, the illness had tightened its grip, confining him to the sterile walls of his hospital room, a prisoner of his own failing body.
"We've never seen a condition like yours before," the doctors had admitted, their faces laced with uncertainty. "You might have five to ten years left—or you could slip away in an instant. There's no way to predict it."
The news had shaken him to his core, but time had dulled the sting. Acceptance replaced despair, and he resolved to live as fully as his fragile body allowed.
After a lingering glance at the stars, he turned back to his laptop, resuming his paused game. Beside it, a tablet flickered with dense, complex readings. His sharp eyes danced between the two screens, effortlessly absorbing information while his fingers navigated the game's intricate mechanics. Overhead, Habanera from Carmen played in the background, the melody weaving seamlessly into the rhythm of his multitasking.
Possessing High Intellectual Potential (HIP) allowed him to process multiple streams of information at once, focusing with a precision most could never achieve. The game, the studies, the music—they all meshed together in perfect harmony within his mind.
He continued this routine until 7:30 PM, pausing just as the clock struck the appointed hour. It was time for his nightly check-up.
Right on cue, the door swung open, and in walked Dr. Michaelson, his ever-punctual physician, accompanied by the nurse on duty for the night—Nurse Jody.
"Hello, Mr. [******], how are you feeling today?" Dr. Michaelson's voice was gentle but carried the practiced detachment of someone who had repeated the same question more times than he could count. Beside him, Nurse Jody moved with quiet precision, her hands deftly arranging the gleaming instruments on a nearby tray. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sterile and unyielding.
The young man exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, weary smile. "Well... the same as always, I guess. Just trying to live every day to the fullest." His voice was steady, honest. There was no bitterness in his words—only the quiet acceptance of someone who had long made peace with the inevitable.
For the briefest of moments, something unspoken flickered in the doctor's eyes, mirrored in Nurse Jody's expression. Pity. It was there and gone in an instant, quickly buried beneath their carefully composed, professional smiles.
He had seen that look too many times to count. At first, it made his blood boil—the way people saw him, their sorrowful gazes heavy with an unspoken verdict. A lost cause. It had felt like a cruel condemnation, a weight he refused to carry. But over time, the fight drained out of him. He stopped resenting it because, in the end, they weren't wrong.
Pity was just another ghost in his life now—one of many he had learned to live with.
As the routine check-up progressed, the doctor's expression remained neutral, his practiced hands moving with precision. But by the end of it, a warm smile spread across his face, softening the usual clinical distance.
"There are still more tests to be done," he began, his voice steady yet kind. "But as of right now, I'd say your progress looks promising. I know you hear this a lot lately, but I want you to truly understand—there is hope. Don't give up just yet."
He placed a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder, a simple gesture, yet heavy with meaning.
Something stirred within him—faint, fragile, but unmistakably there. It was like tiny bubbles rising to the surface of deep, murky water. Hope. Desperate to break free.
For a fleeting moment, he wanted to believe. To let go of the heavy weight pressing against his chest. To trust that, maybe—just maybe—there was a future where pain didn't dictate his every thought. But years of disappointment had wrapped around him like iron chains, constricting, suffocating.
His pessimism was a venomous serpent, coiled tightly around his mind, hissing its familiar warnings. Don't be fooled.Don't set yourself up for another fall. Hope was dangerous—it had betrayed him before. And yet, despite everything, a tiny ember still smoldered in the darkness, refusing to be fully extinguished.
Just as he finally allowed himself to hope again, hot, white pain exploded in the center of his chest. It was a violent, searing agony that stole his breath and sent his body into a desperate spasm. His fingers clawed at his shirt as if he could physically pry the pain away. His vision blurred, the sterile white of the hospital room melting into chaotic smears of movement.
Around him, pandemonium erupted. Dr. Michaelson's voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent, barking orders at the frantic nurses. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor—his lifeline, his metronome—spiraled into a panicked, staccato wail. A digital requiem, playing him out of existence.
In the midst of the chaos, a thought drifted through his fading consciousness, absurd and laced with dark amusement. Oh, of course. The second I decide to believe in life again, life decides it's done with me. Classic.
A weak, invisible chuckle stirred in his chest. Welp… I guess this is it. It was fun while it lasted.
His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the world narrowing into a pinprick of light before finally vanishing into the void.
Then—silence.
Dr. Michaelson let out a slow, weary breath. The battle was over. With the solemnity of a man who had seen too many endings, he removed his gloves and pronounced the time of death.
One by one, the medical staff filed out of the room, their faces etched with the quiet acceptance of yet another lost fight. But before he followed them, Dr. Michaelson hesitated. His gaze lingered on the young man's face, now still, peaceful.
And there it was—a faint, almost knowing smile. As if, in his final moments, he'd understood some grand cosmic joke.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd found it funny.