On the day my sister got engaged, I was diagnosed with cancer

On the day of my cousin's engagement, I waited alone in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor of the hospital, clutching the result in my trembling hands. The rough paper felt like it was infused with lead, weighing down my very soul. Each breath I took was a struggle, as if the air itself had conspired to suffocate me.

The doctor’s words echoed in my mind, a haunting refrain: “Terminal cancer. Discovered too late. You have, at most, three months left to live.” The diagnosis had hit me like a sledgehammer, shattering my world into a thousand irreparable pieces.

As I staggered out of the hospital, my vision blurred with a veil of tears. The bustling crowd around me seemed like a distant, abstract concept. The lively chatter of passersby felt alien and mocking, as if they were unaware of the impending darkness that had just enveloped me.