Underneath the Sycamore Tree

by B. Celeste

People die—of cancer, accidents, there’s no discrimination in death. I guess wearing rose-colored glasses is easier than dark shades.

His head tilts. “Which of the ones you spoke of is your favorite? I couldn’t tell.” “My Sister’s Keeper.” He doesn’t ask why, yet I find myself explaining anyway. “I find that the books with the saddest endings are the best because it makes us feel. We don’t always get a happily ever after no matter how hard we work for it.”

Forcing the thoughts out of my head, I lose myself in my novel. It’s better than thinking about reality. Reality is ugly and painful and full of the kind of heartache that some books help you forget exist for a short period. I get to fall in love thousands of times over, a feat I’m afraid I’ll never accomplish if my illness brings me to Lo instead of my future husband.

Staying in the past means halting the future. I may not get one, so I want to at least try making the most of the present.

I don’t tell her the last one. Instead, I say that I haven’t decided yet and get the generic you have time response. But do I? There are lots of quotes about time. Time is fleeting. Time is valuable. Time shouldn’t be wasted. The trouble with time is that we only think we have it. It’s an illusion—an excuse to linger in existence. Some people use it to be reckless, others use it to hold themselves back. The kids stamping YOLO on their foreheads have no idea what they’re bartering with when they tempt death. They think they’re invincible. And me? I have to watch healthy people with thousands of chances live like they’re not afraid of death at all. Time is a luxury we can’t all afford.

Disease is the monster in the dark. It lingers, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It veers its ugly head and takes what it wants, when it wants. Yet, there’s one disease that is worse than any kind of invisible illness in existence and it is something the world is plagued with. Indifference.

Wishes don’t come true though, because this isn’t some fairytale. It’s reality. And reality is a mean bitch.

Selfish people don’t put anybody first. Selfish people don’t sacrifice everything. They never come second. They never feel torment. My torment is in a five-foot-five form with blonde hair streaked with silver and mossy green eyes filled with sadness in every crevice. I want to believe facing the torment means building my strength, when really it tears me down a little more each day. Because Mama is selfish. “Mama is selfish, Logan.”

Once the words are uttered, my body reacts. It’s like an anvil is about to crush me before someone saves me in the last second. It’s a weight I don’t need burying me under everything else that’s already trying to put me in a grave next to Lo. I stare at the ground. At the grass. At the dirt. “I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

“Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It just means that it can no longer control our lives. I sincerely hope you remember that. I know a hurt soul when I see one, boy. You and Emery are one in the same, which means you’re also tough. It doesn’t matter what battle you’re fighting, it only matters that you’re willing to fight.”

It won’t matter anyway, because Kaiden is…Kaiden. My Kaiden. The very person I need in my life to put things in perspective. Nobody compares. Nobody will get a chance to.

People are afraid of the truth. They don’t want to accept that bad things happen to good people every single day. People struggle. People die. It’s life.

“We get one life. One chance. One opportunity to live. Why should I spend that in more pain than I already do? Anybody can hurt me, but if I choose not to let them I can find some solace in what life has given me. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“I hate this for you, Em.” I hate it for me more.

It all makes sense. My lack of friends. My unwillingness to settle down, to find a promising career path, to dream. I never wanted to date—to make time for people in my life. I make thousands of excuses that hold me back from truly living, and the final puzzle piece reveals the reason why. I’m not meant to. The realization slams into me, slices through me, opens me up. But I welcome it—the truth. Maybe the reason I could never feel satisfied with life is because I’m not meant to live a full one. I’m not meant to meet my future husband or have children. The fewer people who care about me, the fewer people I hurt when it all ends.