Five Feet Apart

by Rachael Lippincott

I know in that moment, even though it could not be more ridiculous, that if I die in there, I won’t die without falling in love.

I’m tired of living without really living. I’m tired of wanting things. We can’t have a lot of things. But we could have this. I know it.

Only other CFers know what this feels like, but we’re not supposed to fall in love with each other.” She stands up, determined. “So, after all that CF has stolen from me—from us—I’m stealing something back.” She holds up the pool cue defiantly, fighting for every one of us. “I’m stealing three hundred and four point eight millimeters. Twelve whole inches. One fucking foot of space, distance, length.” I stare at the video in total admiration. “Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.”

“You stealing roses, Stella? First a whole foot and now this?”

I attempt to hold the door open for her, which is apparently very tricky to do when you’re holding a pool cue and need to be five feet apart at all times, but I’m a gentleman, dammit.

We smile at each other, and even though there are a million reasons why I shouldn’t, looking at her now, I can’t help feeling like I’m falling in love with her.

everything seems different with Will next to me. It’s like seeing everything for the first time. I didn’t know it was possible for a person to make old things become new again.

“If this is all we get, then let’s take it. I want to be fearless and free,” she says, giving me a look, daring me. “It’s just life, Will. It’ll be over before we know it.”