Five Feet Apart

by Rachael Lippincott

I sit, staring at the drawing of the lungs while I breathe in and out. And in and out. And in and . . . out.

I don’t want him to die.

“But what if it does?” she asks, touching my shoulder. I watch her leave. But what if it does.

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.

“Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.”

“God, you’re beautiful. And brave,” I say. “It’s a crime I can’t touch you.”

These people are17 omds.

“It’s just life, Will. It’ll be over before we know it.”

He’s leaving. Will’s leaving. When I open my eyes, he will be gone.