Jenna Kossel was a girl Jim had known from the hospital. Stage-whatever cancer—one of those terrifying medical words that comes with its own doomsday clock. Six months, the doctors said, give or take a miracle.
She used to make hospital food look slightly less tragic. Laughed at everything, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. But somewhere along the way, the disease started winning. Her light got dimmer. The jokes got quieter.
Jim had his own front-row seat to mortality, but somehow being around Jenna made things suck less. *Like emotional Wi-Fi,* he thought. He'd always wanted to talk to her, really talk, but his own expiration date had been looming like a Netflix show he didn't have time to finish.
Now, though? Now he had life. And cosmic sword-fighting powers, apparently.
Maybe I could use this second shot to do something good. Like finally talk to Jenna. Or at least stop staring at her like some tragic rom-com ghost.
Gloria was behind the wheel, driving her sons to the hospital with that focused efficiency she brought to everything else in life. Jim and Matt were glued to their phones in the back seat like classic emotionally unavailable teenagers.
"James Slevann," Gloria said, slicing through the silence.
Jim looked up, catching her eyes in the rearview mirror. There it was—that look. The Mom Look that made you feel caught doing something you hadn't even done yet. Their eyes locked and— Boom.
A wave hit him. Vision after vision, like binge-watching a highlight reel. Whatthehell? He saw his mom's last ten minutes: grocery aisle, spilled marinara, that poor cashier who bagged the eggs wrong. But then it kept going—forward. Gloria on the phone, laughing. A near-miss with a squirrel.
I shouldn't be able to see any of that.
He looked at Matt and instantly regretted it. Different vision. Matt, a girl, a bathroom, hands— Jim gagged audibly.
Matt looked up from his phone. "What?"
"Nothing. You're gross."
"Okay, what?"
"Just... brush your hands before touching me again."
Great. Cosmic night-shift work comes with psychic TMI. Perfect.
Thankfully, they arrived at the hospital before Jim could blurt anything regrettable about bathroom acrobatics. He got out of the car, still slightly stunned from his vision fest.
"Love you, Jim," Gloria said gently, always wrapping every departure in affection, just in case the universe was listening.
"Love you too, Ma," Jim replied, walking off like a guy who had just seen way too much.
***
After his checkup, Jim wandered the hospital halls on his usual route. Not because he had to, but because he passed that room. Jenna's room. His unofficial post-checkup ritual: quick glance through the glass, hopefully catch her laughing with Max, then pretend he hadn't just spent five minutes emotionally fanboying behind a vending machine.
But today was different. No Max. No jokes. Just Jenna, sitting alone on the edge of her bed, wrapped in pale blue hospital cotton.
She looked up. Eye contact. That smile.
But Jim saw more—way more. Ten minutes into the past, ten minutes ahead. She'd been crying. Silently, soul-deep crying. And somehow, she was still smiling. How does she do that?
She tilted her head and motioned him in with a casual wave. Come on, stalker boy. You're already staring.
Jim walked in like a robot impersonating confidence and sat beside her—not too close, not too far.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey. Are you a stalker?"
Jim chuckled, already blushing. "No, not really."
"Max says you always look at me." She raised an eyebrow. "He says maybe you wanna sleep with me."
"God!" Jim nearly fell off the bed. "Sleep with you?!"
She grinned. "Relax, I'm not offended. Just dying. We get to say weird stuff—it's one of the perks."
Dying people get to say whatever they want. Got it. New rule learned.
"You're looking good lately, by the way," she continued. "Got that weird glow. Did you survive death or something?"
Jim shrugged. Yeah, actually, but also... thanks?
"Have you ever had sex?"
Jim blinked like a rebooting computer. "What?"
"Not a surprising question from a dying girl, is it?" She folded her arms, grin half teasing, half something else.
Jim looked down. "No, I haven't. You?"
"Only if we're counting that time I kissed Greg Palmer in second grade and declared us married. So... no." She stood, walking a slow circle around the room. "Would you?"
"Would I... what?" Brain buffering. Brain definitely buffering.
She turned back, expression unreadable. "To be continued," she said with a wink.
I'm going to pass out. I'm literally going to pass out in a hospital, which is probably the best place for it, but still.
They talked for over two hours. About everything—life, death, snacks that tasted like regret, whether the afterlife had decent Wi-Fi. Some conversations got way too personal for Jim's comfort zone, but somehow, he loved it.
She skips small talk and goes straight for the soul. And makes you laugh while she does it.
When Jim finally left, something felt different. Lighter, maybe. Or heavier in a good way. For the first time in years, I'm not just surviving. I'm actually living.
Walking through the parking lot, a thought hit him: Maybe life isn't about ticking off years. Maybe life is six months to live. Maybe life is Jenna. And maybe I'm in real, honest-to-chaos trouble.