One Last Miracle [complete]

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three months, two days...

My phone beeps in the early morning Tuesday. I'm already awake, too hot to sleep, so it isn't as if it wakes me up. Still, I have to wonder whose texting at six in the morning.

I slide the screen open, not surprised to see its James.

Didn't know if you'd be up. Text back when you get this.

In the early morning light, I blink at the screen dumbly before I finally force myself to respond.

I'm awake.

While I wait for him to respond, I lie back against my pillow. Staring at the wall, I pull the blanket up higher. The light chill that sweeps through the room is enough to make my bare arms prickle with goose bumps. With summer ending next month, I know it'll only get worse.

Winter isn't a good time. Sure, we get snow and you can play in it for hours. That had been me, every second I got the chance.

Then I got cancer.

Now, my immune system is weak because of all the treatment. Because of it I'm increasingly vulnerable to catching diseases. And I don't need more illnesses on top of a terminal one. So winter is a nightmare.

I close my eyes, yawning widely.

I'm almost back asleep when my phone finally alerts me of a text. Moving my hand on top of the blankets, I grab it from where it sits next to me.

But it's not a message, just a YouTube link.

Teenage boys sending you a link to a video is a recipe for disaster. I learned the mistake in tenth grade—I still get nightmares about it now.

Still, I trust James. So I tap on the link, waiting for it to load. When the internet finally responds a few minutes later, I stare at my phone in confusion. A trailer for The End of Us starts playing automatically. I don't turn my volume up because I've seen it hundreds of times.

It's the newest one, beginning with both characters walking down opposite ends of the street. Then it flashes to various scenes. Some are from the book, others aren't. Some actors look completely wrong, others are perfect.

I'm tempted to keep watching the video, but my phone flashes with a notification of another text. I close Safari down, changing back to messages.

Figure you know the video is. I saw the book sitting on the side of your hospital bed.

I can only blink stupidly. My brain refuses to catch up. Too late though, I realise I've sent a response in my muddled haze of disbelief:

Are you offering to take me to see it?

I stare at the words, cringing. If I'm reading the situation wrong... then I just embarrassed myself tenfold.

It's odd—the whole situation. And I feel out of my depth—so much so it's not funny. But, in hindsight, it's not that big of a deal. This is what a friendship is. Randomly being invited to places. Starting a conversation that can inadvertently lead somewhere. Feeling comfortable under any circumstances.