"...a rare form of cancer called Luminara Carcinoma. Stage three."

Again.

Cancer. Stage three.

I couldn't help but let out a small, nervous laugh. Of course, it had to be something rare, something I'd never heard of. Cancer couldn't just be cancer; it had to be 'Luminara Carcinoma.'

Really, it sounded more like a name for a space-age spaceship or an exotic flower. Not a disease that had taken up residence inside my body.

The doctor said that it is the rarest of the rare, the cosmic lottery of diseases. And in a strange way, it almost felt like winning a contest that no one ever wanted to enter.

"Ms. Kim... are you listening?" she asked, and only did I realize that I was smiling like an idiot.

"Sorry." I offered a weak smile to the doctor, trying to make light of the situation. "Luminara Carcinoma, huh? Sounds like the name of a fancy perfume. I guess I'm just too fabulous for regular cancer."

Her brows furrowed as she observed my attempt at humor, a mixture of concern and confusion in her eyes. "Ms. Kim, I understand that you might be trying to cope with this in your own way, but it's essential to recognize the seriousness of your condition. Luminara Carcinoma is indeed rare, and we need to discuss your treatment plan," she said.

"Oh, absolutely, doctor. I'll make sure to use my fabulousness to beat this thing. Maybe I'll even turn it into a fashion statement." I said, "Cancer, but make it couture."

"Ms. Kim, I'll give you some time to process this," she said. "...then we can talk about your treatment options in more detail. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you have any questions or concerns."

I nodded, attempting to mask the anxiety coursing through my veins with a brave smile. As Dr. Park left the room, I couldn't help but let out a shaky laugh, but this time, the laughter didn't come from a place of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a shield I used to protect myself from the reality of my situation.

Sana had yet to learn the news, and I knew that telling her would be the hardest part.

I went home. Sana wasn't there.

Our cozy little apartment. The familiarity of our shared space offered some comfort. The scent of the freshly baked cookies we made the other day still lingered in the air, and our ginger, female... yes female (I know that's rare too), cat, Dahana, curled up on the living room couch, napping.

I sighed.

I knew I couldn't keep this a secret. Secrets have a way of festering, growing darker and heavier with time. But I also understood that the mere thought of Sana shedding tears because of me was unbearable.

When you love someone, every tear they shed because of you takes away years from your own life. Who said that? Me, I made it up, just to keep you from ever being the cause of your woman's tears.

Anyway, I couldn't afford to lose any more years, especially when I was already faced with the stark reality of my own mortality.

I settled down in front of my computer, my fingers hovering, hesitating over the keyboard.

I knew that I should have asked Dr. Park more about Luminara Carcinoma when I had the chance, but my penchant for deflecting with humor would have gotten the better of me. I was never good at serious conversations, not even when the stakes were so high.

With a deep breath, I started typing 'Luminara Carcinoma' into the search bar. My heart pounded as the search results filled the screen, and I couldn't help but wince at the avalanche of medical jargon that greeted me. This was uncharted territory, a realm where my usual wit and humor couldn't provide solace.

I read through the articles, my eyes scanning the screen for any glimmers of hope.

It was bad, really bad.

Luminara Carcinoma was a fast-growing cancer, and it had a tendency to progress to the fourth stage rapidly. The fourth stage, where it was no longer curable, where the door to death swung wide open. The only ray of light in this darkness was that it was still treatable at the third stage, the stage I was currently in. A one-way road to a dead end, and the end was closer than I wanted to admit.

"Well, isn't this just the cherry on top of the cupcake?" I chuckled. "A cancer that's both a sprinter and a marathon runner."

"Stage three is my finish line, and if I don't make it in time, it's game over." I sighed, "Why do I always end up with the quirky and unpredictable things in life?"

I heard the sound of someone struggling at the front door. I knew it was her, and my heart felt a strange emotion.

Suddenly, I was asking myself these questions. What kind of day had she had? What would her reaction be when I told her about the diagnosis?

Quickly, I closed the computer and made my way to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open just in time for Sana to stumble inside. She looked more stressed than I'd ever seen her, and her usually bright eyes were clouded with fatigue. But when she caught sight of me, a chuckle of relief escaped her lips.

"Finally, I'm home," she sighed, as if the day had been nothing short of a whirlwind.

I couldn't help but smile, my worries momentarily pushed aside by her presence. "Honey, it's good to see you," I replied, wrapping my arms around her in a gentle embrace. "What happened today? You look like you've been through quite the ordeal."

Sana let out a tired sigh, her shoulders slumping as she began to recount her day. "You won't believe it. I stopped by the pet store to grab some food for Dahana, and while I was walking back, the bag got torn apart," she said. "Cat food all over the concrete down there. But hey, at least the stray cats got a good meal out of it."

"Well, that's one way to help out the local feline population. Dahana must have been thrilled to have her friends over for a surprise dinner party."

Just as we were chatting, Dahana, our curious and ever-hungry cat, appeared from the depths of the apartment. She leaped onto a stack of boxes near the doorway, her tail twitching with excitement. With nimble paws, she stretched and reached out for the bag that Sana was holding. Her head poked into the hole, and she began feasting on the cat food.

Sana's sudden hand-switching maneuver caught me by surprise, and in an instant, I found myself holding the torn bag of cat food. She walked into the living room, exhaustion evident in every step she took. With a resigned sigh, she flopped down on the couch.

I caught Dahana in my arms, gently placing our little cat near her food bowl. I poured some cat food from the torn bag into the container, and she began eating again, her tiny nose touching the kibbles.

Then, I finally joined Sana on the couch.

Sana must have sensed my gaze because she opened her eyes, blinking as she realized I was staring at her. With a teasing smile, she quipped, "What... you're looking at me like you're going to die tomorrow."

I chuckled softly at her playful comment, shaking my head. How could I possibly respond to such a statement when my heart was weighed down with the truth I had yet to reveal? I looked down, finding it difficult to meet her eyes.

"How are you? You're back sooner than I expected," she said.

I hesitated, my lips parting as if to speak, but the words refused to emerge. My voice caught in my throat, and I couldn't bring myself to say the words that would change everything.

After a moment of silence, all I could manage was a soft, "I'm pretty good... yeah."

"That's it?"

I let out a sigh and scratched the top of my head, trying to deflect from the real issue. "Well, as for the job, I went to three places looking for babysitting gigs with their little tykes, but they all turned me down," I confessed.

Sana looked at me, confusion knitting her brows. "Why on earth? You're a natural with kids. They adore you," she insisted.

"Well, they were after someone who's not as frail-looking as yours truly, you know, for that extra security... and, um, they wanted someone taller."

I said the last part with a hint of shyness, reluctant to admit it. Sana's reaction was far from what I had expected. Instead of offering consolation, she burst out laughing, her laughter filling the room.

"Hey, how can you laugh like that? I'm not short; it's just that everyone else is a little too tall."

Sana couldn't hold back her amusement, playfully declaring, "Well, that means you're short!"

"Don't use that term!" I sulked. "Just say... vertically challenged. It sounds fancier."

Her laugh.

A rare and precious gem. It had the power to wash away my worries and fill my world with joy. And I would do just about anything to hear that laughter – to keep that infectious lightness in her eyes.

I'd give anything to have her laugh like that every day. I'd make a fool of myself all over again, just to hear the music of her laughter.

Like the time we went for a picnic, and I tried to open a can of soda but ended up spraying it all over her new dress. Her laughter had filled the air as I attempted to dry her off with paper towels, and the ruined picnic turned into an impromptu water fight.

Or the time she accidentally put on mismatched socks, one pink and one green, and only noticed when we were already out at the grocery store. She'd shrugged it off with a grin, saying that she was starting a new fashion trend. It was funny.

And then there was the time when we were caught in a sudden rainstorm. The rain came out of nowhere, drenching us completely. Sana's feet slipped on a wet cobblestone, and she toppled to the ground, pulling me down with her. We had both ended up in a fit of laughter, rolling down the cement pavement, soaked to the bone but deliriously happy.

I want to create more memories like that, even if it means doing something ridiculous, something that'll make her laugh like crazy.

"Honey, let's stay healthy, hmm?" I began, my words laced with a gentle sincerity. "Let's do that from now on."

Sana chuckled, seemingly unphased by the underlying meaning. She had always been the one to appreciate directness, and my roundabout way of speaking was probably a source of amusement for her.

"Why? Because you want to stop looking frail?" Sana teased. "You should eat more." And she wasn't done. "As for the height department, well, I hate to break it to you, but no kale smoothie in the world can fix that."

I sighed, realizing that my words had fallen flat. I guess today will be another round of good-natured teasing about my height.

The determination to live had taken root within me. So, the next day, I visited the hospital again. Now, I'm ready to face my diagnosis head-on.  Who cares if it was only seven percent out of a hundred with Luminara Carcinoma who made it? I will be one of them.

For Sana, for myself, for our love, I had decided that I would fight with everything I had to make a miraculous recovery.

I had chosen not to share the news with Sana until I had made progress. I wanted to spare her the initial shock and worry and give her hope when I had something hopeful to share. However, in the worst-case scenario, if my cancer did progress to stage four, then I will have to reveal the truth to her. B