Chapter 1
Suddenly, a voice was heard echoing through the dimly lit room. "How much longer do we have to waste money on this child? The doctor himself has already said this child will not make it!" The voice was sharp, filled with frustration.
Another voice, softer yet firm, responded almost immediately, "Can you please be quiet!? She can hear you."
The room fell into silence. Even without opening my eyes, I could feel the weight of their words pressing down on me, suffocating me.
My name is Enny. This year, I was supposed to turn eighteen. A milestone, a beginning for many—but for me, it is a battle against time. Since I was a child, I was not given a healthy body like others. I have spent more days in hospital rooms than in my own home. The walls here are familiar, the beeping machines a cruel lullaby that sings me to sleep each night.
Sometimes, when my father was in a better mood, he would take me outside for a walk in the park. Those were rare moments of happiness, where I could feel the sun on my skin and the gentle breeze in my hair. I would watch other teenagers, laughing, running, living. They looked so happy with their parents, their friends. I wished I could be like them. I wished I could run without feeling my chest tighten, without the world spinning around me. I wished I could breathe freely without the oxygen tube tethering me to this fragile existence.
"You're so quiet today, Enny," my father said on one of our walks, pushing my wheelchair gently along the path. "Is something wrong?"
I wanted to tell him that everything was wrong. That I was tired—tired of fighting, tired of seeing the pity in his eyes, tired of hearing my mother's stifled sobs when she thought I was asleep. But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I forced a small smile. "Nothing, Dad. I just like being outside."
He nodded, though I knew he didn't believe me. We both knew my time was slipping through our fingers like grains of sand, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.
At night, when the world was quiet and the pain in my body grew unbearable, I would close my eyes and imagine a different life. A life where I was healthy, where my parents weren't burdened with hospital bills and whispered conversations about my future—or lack of one. A life where I wasn't a reminder of their suffering.
But reality always came crashing back. The whispers, the worry, the pain—it was all real. And no matter how much I wished for a different ending, I knew my story was already written.
I just didn't know how much time I had left to read it.
My parents are fighting again.
Their voices echo through the small room, sharp and bitter.
"We can't keep doing this, Michael! She's suffering—can't you see that?" my mother snaps, her voice cold, exhausted.
"And what do you want me to do, Anna?! Just give up on her?!" my father yells back, frustration and desperation twisting in his voice.
I close my eyes for a moment, listening to them. They always fight about me. About my existence.
I take a deep breath and finally ask, "Dad, Mom… why do you still let me live?"
Silence.
For the first time, they stop arguing. But their silence is heavier than their words.
I already know the answer.
My mother's face remains emotionless, distant—like someone who has already given up. She doesn't meet my eyes. Maybe she doesn't want to. Maybe she doesn't care anymore.
But my father… he looks different. His face is lined with worry, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. His lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come out.
I offer him a small, weak smile. "Don't worry, Dad. I just want to sleep for a moment."
I don't want to see the pain in his eyes. I don't want to hear their voices anymore. I just want peace.
I try to hold on to my smile, but my body doesn't listen to me anymore. My eyes feel heavy. My vision blurs.
Then everything goes dark.