Letting you go [COMPLETE]

Chapter 18 ~ Part 2

Towards the end of the chapter it gets really heavy emotionally. Mentions of suicide sort of heavy. So, if this bothers you or triggers something because of past experiences don't read! 

There's also swearing, but that's not anything new xD

Dedicated to @suganthii again for the amazing cover! Every time I look at it, I fall in love all over again. Go and check out her new book! It's sooooo good and she makes the best covers!

Unedited.

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"You ready?"

               I glance up at James, before remembering that it's not him. Jordon stands before me, eating a sausage roll. "Huh?"

               "You ready?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

               James isn't in the room, telling me that he had to do something, before he left. I hadn't asked what. Now it's just Jordon and I, him standing as I sit against the corner of the lounge. He doesn't seem too offended by anything dad said to him, which I'm grateful for.

               "Sure. I mean, aside from that," I say gesturing to the machine at my side. Dad brought it in before he and mum left, giving me stern instruction to take care of myself. The plugs have been in since they left. Walking around a city with one working lung is going to be exhausting, I know, but it'll be worth it.

               "What's it like?"

               I frown at him. "What's what like?"

               He pops a peanut into his mouth, chewing before answering, "Uh . . . that." His arms waves in the general direction of my machine.

               Reaching over, I grab a grape. "What? Cancer?"

               The wince isn't very well hidden. "Uh . . . yeah."

               Hearing him stumble over the words is odd. Obviously, in his school he's the one everyone either wants to date or be. Being self-assured comes with the job description. Then again, cancer always makes for an awkward conversation. It's the fear of saying something that'll set the person off and send them in a mess of tears. "Cancer is cancer. It's not all that exciting."

               Frowning, he says—cautiously, I notice—, "Exciting?"

               Clearly it isn't enough of an answer. Cancer's hard to describe. There's so many things you can say, yet putting it into words is almost impossible. "Uh. Sometimes there's times you want to curl up in a ball and cry. Other times you want to go into fit of rages. You get angry. A lot. Sad too. There's normally depression but it depends on the person. Chemotherapy sucks. Half the time it does more harm than good. I think that's it."

               "How long have you . . .?"

               "How long do I have left?"

               He swallows. "Uh . . . have left?"

               "A year," I tell him, voice factual. Now, it's more like three quarters of a year though.

               His mouth opens before he closes it again. "A year?" he manages, finally, voice thin.

               I nod. "Less now."

               "Holy fu— Shit, sorry. Trying not to swear here. And I just did." Raking a hand through his hair, he stares at me, pity in his eyes. "I'm sorry. That's awful."